For What We Are
by Hekate1308
Summary: Castiel Novak was one of the best agents the FBI had ever had. His new case, however, was almost too much to handle even for him. With the arrival of Dean Winchester, a demon, he realized that his world wasn't as black and white as he had thought. Destiel. AU. FBI agent!Castiel, demon!Dean Winchester.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: I decided to try something new. I've been a fan of _Supernatural _for a while now, and I adore Dean's and Cas' relationship. So this is a Destiel AU. I won't update daily; I hope I'll update weekly. The chapters will be longer than usual. **

**I don't own anything, neither characters nor the images I used creating the Cover Image.**

**Please review. **

It was a night in July. The sunset had caused a velvet blanket to drop over the town, and the oppressive heat that had been hanging over it for the last few days hadn't abated, making people decide to sleep with their windows open.

It wasn't necessary for his plan, but it certainly made things easier.

He slipped through the darkness, barely stirring the grass through which he passed on his way to the window at the back.

As he had expected, a window on the first floor had been left open.

He smiled.

There were protections, of course, but nothing he couldn't handle.

However –

Looking up at the house, a fleeting memory touched his mind. Him and his kid brother, playing in the backyard.

He hadn't thought about it for a long time. He had forgotten about it, and he had no desire to remember now. The memory sank back into the remains of his soul, into the dark, bloody _thing_ that formed the core of his being.

He wouldn't fail.

He had been born to this, had been made into what he was to fulfil this assignment, and he wouldn't fail.

He stood in front of the house, remembering what he had been taught, what was expected of him. He wouldn't fail.

Slowly, he began to climb up to the window.

* * *

It had been a normal day until now. Special Agent Castiel Novak had filled reports and listened to his superior's explanations about the budget once again; not that it mattered, seeing as he had meant the budget concerning office supplies, and he'd always been economical with his paperclips.

It was a normal day, no cases, like it had been for weeks. He enjoyed the breathing space, even if it meant he had little to do and returned to an empty house at the same time every evening.

At 4 pm, the call came.

It was strange that the local police should call in the Bureau when there was no evidence that a multiple offender was behind the murder. Normally they preferred looking into the case themselves. They only notified the FBI when they saw no other way, and Castiel was immediately suspicious when he heard that they had all but begged for their help.

It meant that whatever had happened – it was bad.

Henricksen called him into his office.

It didn't come as a surprise. For the last half hour, several of his colleagues had passed his office to tell him about the strange call. Word travelled fast in the Bureau. And he was usually the man to go to for things like this, if he said so himself.

He might be young, only in his early thirties, but he had had more than ten years experience and he was good. Like his father before him.

"It's a strange one" Henricksen told him. "Lawrence, Kansas. Body was found an hour ago".

"Only an hour? Why did they call us?" Castiel asked. His boss preferred a direct approach. He couldn't stand it when people tried to pry answers out of him by being too subtle.

Henricksen shook his head. "It's not entirely clear. The body appears to be mutilated, and there's weird stuff in the victim's house – they're freaked out."

""Freaked out?" That's why they called us? No other information?" Castiel inquired, incredulous. It wasn't the Bureau's policy to pay attention to calls that not only failed to specify what was going on but also disregarded the official applications that had to be filled or before they could get involved.

The other man sighed. "I know. But if we help them out, even though they probably don't need us, other PDs might not be so reluctant to call us when they do."

That was why Castiel hated politics. They made it so much more difficult to do his job. And that Lawrence's PD apparently hadn't followed the rules but sent out a call and hoped that they would answer still irked him. He preferred his cases done correctly and by the book. There was no risk of a criminal escaping justice because of faulty procedures this way.

Henricksen was aware of this. Which made it strange that he had called Castiel to his office in the first place.

"Castiel" he began and the agent immediately understood that he was asked to do something he definitely should if he cared about his career. Henricksen had only used his first name on a number of occasions, and it had always been with the same tone: a mixture between pleading and subtle threats.

"I need you to go there and assess the situation. If there's nothing there, tell them they can do it on their own. Assure them that they didn't waste your time, though. We need the local PDs to trust us. Write a report, file it. Then we can forget about it".

"And if there is something?" He knew his boss, and he had heard the hesitation when he'd pronounced "nothing".

Henricksen gave him a wry smile.

"Then you call and we'll send reinforcement".

He didn't look forward to travel miles for a case that might not be one, and that without knowing what he had to expect. But Henricksen was his superior, and he wouldn't disobey an order.

He nodded and stood up.

"Jet's waiting" Henricksen said and Castiel raised an eyebrow. It wasn't normal for them to use a jet. He had expected to either fly in economy class or drive.

"If this is nothing, we can't afford to have you travelling across the country. You might be needed here".

It was a flimsy excuse, and Henricksen knew it. Obviously Castiel wasn't supposed to ask further questions, and after a quick goodbye he left the office. Someone at the Bureau must owe someone at Lawrence PD a favour, he decided. Someone of the higher-ups. And they sent him to look at the mess and explain their job to the police.

He sighed. He really would have preferred paperwork over this.

He grabbed his overnight bag from his office and made his way to the jet, only stopping once to explain where he was going to Balthazar, one of the few co-workers he considered a friend.

"You have to tell me all about the nightlife of Lawrence, Kansas when you come back" he said sarcastically. Castiel rolled his eyes and strolled on. Balthazar knew he wasn't as annoyed with him as he affected to be.

The jet was already waiting for him when he got to the airport. He spent the flight looking out of the window. He felt jumpy, nervous. It didn't have anything to do with the flight – he had never had any problems with height – but he should have a file before him, reports, maps. He wasn't used to running into a crime scene and not knowing what awaited him.

As it turned out, Lawrence PD had sent a car.

A young PC was waiting for him. Castiel saw his eyes linger on the trench coat that he invariably wore, the tie he never managed to tie correctly, his hair that would never stay flat once he'd combed it.

The man realized that he was impolitely staring and greeted him.

"Agent Novak? Constable Connors".

They shook hands and after he'd entered the car, Castiel asked, "What can you tell me?"

Connors waited a few moments before answering, and it told Castiel a lot. He may be young, but the PC should be used to gruesome sights. It came with the job.

"It's – " He cleared his throat. "It's a local man, George Stevens. Didn't work as far as we know. He was found almost four hours ago. The postman had a package he needed him to sign and when he wouldn't open, he looked through the window..." He trailed off and gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles were turning white. Castiel decided not to rush him, letting him tell the story at his own pace. He was stressed enough.

"He was – lying in the living room. He had been mutilated."

"Mutilated? How?" Castiel asked automatically. Questions like these were his job, and he couldn't always stop himself.

"Eviscerated" Connors replied tensely. "His inner organs were lying on the furniture. It looked like a bizarre arrangement..."

He took a left turn and continued, "And then there was the stuff the victim kept at his house."

"I was told he kept some weird items" Castiel replied. He waited for Connors to elaborate, which he soon did.

"There was this pentagram drawn on the ceiling of one of the rooms; there were smaller ones all around the house, and salt everywhere".

"Couldn't it have been the killer?"

"The pentagrams look fairly old. And he kept an arsenal – shotguns, colts, knives".

Castiel nodded, thinking over what he had just heard. He never theorized before he had seen the crime scene or photos but it was strange that a man should keep an arsenal in his house.

"You said he didn't work?"

"Not as far as we can tell. Neighbours say they didn't know him – kept to himself. None of them thought him a nut job who'd have enough ammunition to blow away half the population, though".

Neighbours rarely did. Castiel could remember countless interviews like the ones the PD was conducting at the moment.

"_He was a little strange, of course, but he always greeted politely". _

"_He was so nice to the kids"._

"_I can't imagine – really? But he was just a normal guy..."_

They wouldn't get anything useful out of the neighbours. Most likely not even the family members, if he had any.

Connors seemed to guess where his thoughts were going and said, "He didn't have any relatives or friends, apparently".

A lonely man with an arsenal. It was not a good combination. Nothing he had heard, however, had convinced Castiel that this was more than a strange murder case that would stay a one-time-only for Lawrence. If this continued to be so, he could be back in Quantico in the evening.

He would have to study the strange symbols at the crime scene and the arrangement of the organs before he could be sure, of course. This might be the first crime of a serial killer, although it was unlikely. They seldom emerged with a mature modus operandi. They should have seen similar cases before now.

He realized he was theorizing without having seen any evidence and quickly concentrated at the view out of the window.

It looked like any other town, like any others he had seen in the past few years. According to the research he had done on the plane, it had a higher crime rate than most cities in Kansas, but he doubted that all murders were like this. The victim had been mutilated and eviscerated...

A few minutes later, Connors took a right turn into a quiet street. In front of them, Castiel saw the police tape and cars in front of a two storey house.

They got out of the car and made their way to the front door, Castiel ignoring the strange looks he got because he was still wearing his trench coat.

Connors led him to a middle-aged man who was standing on the lawn, looking tired.

"Agent Novak" Castiel said, extending his hand.

The other man took it and replied, "DI Thompson. Glad you could make it. It's – we don't get a lot of that around here".

Castiel nodded and the DI led the way into the living room. They stopped at the front door where he was handed a suit and gloves. Connors automatically took his trench coat and Castiel gave him a grateful nod. Normally he had to ask if he could put it somewhere.

Crime scene techs were still working the place, and the body hadn't been moved; Castiel suspected it had been left there for him, since normally on a day like this they would have wanted to get it to the mortuary as quickly as possible.

The victim lay in the middle of the floor, his arms stretched out on either side of his body. The stench of blood lay heavy in the air, but he had enough experience to ignore it. Castiel kneeled down next to him, careful not to disturb anything, and let his gaze sweep over the injuries. There were a few slashes on his face, but he was still recognizable. He'd been a man about forty, dark hair, brown eyes.

He was naked. His body had been ripped open from the sternum downwards, stopping before the genitals. His organs – he could make out a kidney, the liver and part of the entrails – had been laid out in the form of crosses on the sofa and the table.

It looked ritualistic, but not as precise as Castiel would have imagined. Three of the crosses could hardly be recognized as such. If this was an important part of his ritual, the murderer would have paid attention. He wouldn't have allowed them to look so messy.

He didn't voice his thoughts, not yet. He had to see the rest of the house first.

A crime scene tech called out, and Castiel and DI Thompson went over to her.

She'd lifted a corner of the carpet and pointed at a marking on the floor.

"I'd say it's part of a pentagram. Same kind we've found in the rest of the house".

Thompson nodded. "I assume you want to see the rest?" he asked Castiel.

"Yes please".

There were three more rooms on the ground floor; a kitchen, a toilet, and an office.

Thompson pointed out several pentagrams on the hallway, as well as one in front of every door.

"Don't think the killer made them".

"No, it doesn't look like that".

Castiel kneeled down and scrutinized the symbol that was painted in front of the door of the office.

"It looks like the line was broken, and he painted it over". He pointed at a part of the circle around the pentagram that was lighter.

Thompson nodded.

"Any ideas?"

Castiel stood up and shrugged. He would have preferred not to assume before he'd had a chance to look at the other rooms, and perhaps find something that told him what significance the pentagrams had had for George Stevens, but Thompson was looking at him expectantly.

"Pentagrams are supposed to keep witches away."

"I thought witches used them?"

"Some of them do, but even if he was interested in witchcraft, why would he paint them everywhere if he only needed them for a ritual?" Castiel paused and, after a short deliberation, decided to say out loud what he'd felt since he'd seen the hallway, full of the symbols "This seems like he was protecting himself".

"From what?"

"I don't know".

"Maybe he was paranoid" Thompson theorized. "Thought witches were out to get him".

Castiel nodded to show that he was listening, although he was concentrating on the office. It was clean, impeccable even. The murderer either hadn't been here or he'd cleaned afterwards. Thinking of the living room, Castiel decided the first was more likely.

He went to the bookcase. Most agents preferred to start at the desk, but he'd always felt that books revealed a lot about a person.

He frowned as he scanned the titles. Many were in foreign languages, and all seemed to be about lore, mythology, witchcraft or urban legends.

"Latin" he mumbled to himself. "Ancient Greek. Enochian". There were a few other languages he recognized and he named them one after the other, more for his benefit than that of the DI.

"Enochian?" Thompson asked.

Castiel nodded.

"Late sixteenth-century England. It was transmitted by a medium. It's used in magical rituals."

Thompson looked at him. "You seem to know a lot about rituals".

Castiel shrugged. "It helps". He didn't feel that explaining his interest in occultism and magic as well as religion, all from a scientific standpoint, would be beneficial to his relationship with the DI. Many people regarded magic as strange, even after centuries in which it had been proven not to exist; and he needed his trust if he wanted to work the case.

He looked at the bookcase once more to give himself a few seconds to sort his thoughts when he realized that he had just assumed he would be working the case. This wasn't a serial killer, until further cases showed up; he hadn't even seen the rest of the house. And yet here he was, ready to start.

Something about this case – it just felt _different_. He couldn't explain it, it just did. From the moment he had entered the house – no, not only then. He had to admit that, while he had been annoyed that he was sent here... Something, a premonition...

Castiel forced the thoughts away. He had to decide whether or not this was a case the Bureau should follow, and right now there was no evidence of a link between states or a serial killer. Therefore, it seemed unlikely that he would work the case.

He went to the desk and quickly looked through the drawers. There were more documents in foreign languages, and more than once he read the words _δαιμόνιον_, _daimon _and _demon_, but there was no clue to George Stevens' killer.

It told him precious little about the victim as well. He had obviously been interested in the occult, he had been scared – the pentagrams proved that he'd tried to protect himself. But scared of what? Based on what Castiel had seen so far, he'd been scared of monsters, ghosts, demons – he couldn't exactly say what, but apparently it had to do with the supernatural, and nothing supernatural had committed this murder. It had been a man, a man with a lot of hate towards the victim, but as far as Castiel could tell, he had done nothing to warrant such ferocity.

He turned to Thompson.

"I'd like to see the rest of the house".

He hadn't yet laid eyes on the arsenal and was very aware of the fact. It meant that he had kept his weapons upstairs – not unusual if one owned one gun to defend oneself against burglars, but since there appeared to be a whole collection of arms, Castiel found it strange that he hadn't kept it in his office or in a safe. Then again, there could be a safe upstairs – once more, he thought bitterly that it would be easier if he'd had files to study before coming here. Maybe he shouldn't be too angry, however; he had seen the body at the crime scene, and that happened seldom enough.

Being called in early had it upsides and his downsides, he guessed.

Thompson led the way again. He went straight into the bedroom.

There was barely any furniture; a bed, a bedside table, two cupboards. Castiel immediately thought that there must be a reason for the second one. Most people who lived alone were satisfied with one cupboard.

He was right.

The DI opened the one next to the door. It appeared to be empty until he reached out and moved his hand along the back. A wooden panel all but fell into his hand and he dew it out.

"We put it back the way we found it until the crime scene people take a good look at it."

Castiel was looking at the arsenal, and he had to admit it was impressive one. Colts, shotguns (two of them sawed off), knives that looked like they were made of silver, sables, and, strangely, some bottles of water.

"I assume he didn't have permits for the weapons?"

"You'd assume right. He had a permit for one shotgun, but that's it. Don't understand the water. Didn't think of him as a survival freak".

No, it didn't fit. There had been no survival books in the office, and no attempts to protect the house from attacks other than the supernatural kind, which really meant there had been no security system at all.

What had George Stevens needed an arsenal for?

"The shells for the shotgun appear to be handmade" Castiel said, leaning into the cupboard. "Analyzing them might offer some clues." It was a long shot, but in a murder investigation every trail was worth pursuing.

He more felt than saw Thompson nod as he turned around and focused on the rest of the room.

There were only two things on the bedside table: a crime novel and a picture.

Castiel picked up the photograph. It showed a young girl around twenty, smiling at the camera.

"I was told he had no family?"

"Not that we know of. I have my guys working on at as we speak". Thompson took the picture out of his hand.

"Pretty".

Castiel didn't comment and opened the drawer of the cupboard. Reading glasses and tissues, a flask as well as a gun.

"He certainly felt threatened" he stated as he took out the flaks and sniffed at it.

"Water" he continued, surprised. He had several bottles of water in the cupboard, yet he had a flask in his bedside table? It didn't make sense.

Nothing about this case made sense. The victim had been interested in witchcraft – but why kill him and use crosses as symbols? A satanistic killer, or someone who shared his interest in the occult, probably wouldn't have used Christian symbols, and the crosses were obviously supposed to imitate those found at churches. And the victim – he hadn't had any friends or family, but hadn't disturbed anyone. He had kept to himself, not spoken about his beliefs, whatever they may have been...

Castiel couldn't see a motive, and that would point towards a serial killer. But why George Stevens?

He tried to remember the victim's position on the floor. He had been naked, but there were no blood stains in the rest of the house, which meant he had been killed where he was found. Either he had been naked or the murderer had undressed him. There were no signs of a break in. He might have let his murderer in. Which, together with his lack of clothes, indicated –

No. Castiel doubted that this was a crime of passion. Why mutilate the victim in this manner?

He quickly looked over the bathroom and a guest room that had served more as storage. In the latter, they found many boxes.

"There're books in some of them, bones in others" Thompson pointed them out, "and some of them have weird markings on them. We haven't even opened them yet."

Castiel looked at them and wondered if he should investigate them now, but decided against. The less they risked contaminating the crime scene, the easier it would be for the forensics.

He walked downstairs, followed by the DI. They left the house and stood on the lawn, glad to breathe the fresher air. Castiel got out of the plastic suit and put on his trench coat that Connors brought over immediately.

"What do you say?"

It was the question he had feared. Thompson obviously thought that he'd need all the help he could get. He wouldn't have a problem with Castiel working the case. But he didn't know if there was a case, at least for the Bureau.

And yet – he could feel it in his bones. Something had happened, something strange, something big, and he had to find out what. Normally, he tried to ignore feelings and do his job to the best of his abilities.

He couldn't, this time. The realization came so quickly and was so obviously true that it scared him.

"I don't know yet" he found himself saying. "I'll stay a few days, observe how the case develops".

Thompson smiled, relieved.

"I appreciate it. I know this isn't exactly – the DCI knows someone, and – "

"I told you I'm staying" Castiel interrupted, harsher than he intended. He didn't have to hear about any politics that had played a part in him being sent here. This was about the case, not about someone higher-up doing someone a favour.

Thompson didn't take it personally, only nodded, and left Castiel alone as he pulled out his phone.

He didn't know what to tell his superior.

**Author's note: Please tell me what you think. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: I have decided that Wednesday should be update day.**

**I don't own anything, please review. **

He should have called Henricksen, but instead he dialled Balthazar's number. If anyone could understand his strange instinct, it was the other agent. They had met at the academy and knew each other very well, had worked several cases together with great success.

"Already missing me?" he answered, the slight accent that betrayed his upbringing near Quebec more noticeable over the phone.

"It has to be that, because you would never call me if you hadn't talked to Henricksen first..."

There was mirth in his voice, and Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Balthazar was delighted when he broke the rules, since he claimed that many of them hindered their work. Castiel disagreed with him.

Now was not the time for a discussion about the Bureau's work ethics, however.

"I – " he began but stopped when he realized he didn't know what to say. How could he explain that he thought they should take this case because it felt like they should?

"Are you lost for words? You never run out of ways to surprise me".

"Balthazar". Something in his voice must have told the other agent that he didn't appreciate being made fun of at the moment, and he fell silent, waiting for Castiel to explain.

"This case – it doesn't feel right".

"By what little you told me, Cassie, the man was mutilated. It's only natural that you should think so".

He didn't even flinch at the nickname he'd hated at first but grown used to over the course of their friendship.

"No, it's – there's no sign that it's a serial killer. His modus operandi should have appeared in a less mature form before now. And no state lines have been crossed. But..."

"You want to take the case". If Balthazar was surprised that he wanted to take a case based on instinct, he didn't let him know.

"I think" he said diplomatically "it would be the right thing to do. You're going to tell Henricksen?"

He didn't have to answer that question. Of course he would. He could only hope that he would be allowed to stay.

Balthazar seemed to realize what he was thinking.

"Don't worry, you've always got silly old me. Send me the photos; I'll take a look at them and help convince the boss".

Castiel smiled. He had been sure he could depend on Balthazar. He would have to pay him a drink once he returned.

"I will" he replied, "Goodbye".

He hung up without another word, knowing Balthazar wouldn't hold it against him, and went to search the crime scene tech who'd raised the carpet.

She gladly sent him the photos she'd taken so far, and he forwarded them to Balthazar as well as their superior.

"So" she asked, "does this mean you're going to stay?"

"I don't know yet" he answered honestly. He wanted to stay, felt he needed to stay, but he couldn't say why, and neither could he predict what Henricksen would say.

"We'd be glad". He quickly decided that she meant mostly herself. Many locals didn't like the FBI working with them. "We don't get a lot of that out here".

He nodded. "Thank you for the pictures, – ?"

"Rachel" she said, smiling. He smiled back, thankful that he'd found at least one forensic who would help him with the evidence if he needed it, then excused himself to call Henricksen.

He picked up immediately.

"What is that?"

"I don't know" Castiel said.

"You want to stay". It was a statement, not a question, and he wondered if Balthazar had already told their boss that this was an unusual case, one that required their attention, and if he had found arguments besides the strangeness of the crime and Castiel's feeling that there was more behind this than a one-time-only atrocity.

"This is – This case is... unusual".

"I saw the pictures. But nothing is pointing to a serial killer so far – "

"It could be".

Castiel was aware that he was bargaining, which he rarely did, but he –

He didn't understand why, he suddenly realized. Why this need to stay? Why the feeling that he had to see this through? It didn't make sense.

And yet he was relieved when Henricksen said, "Alright. You have one week. If you don't have any proof that this falls under our jurisdiction then, you come back".

"Yes, sir" Castiel automatically replied. They ended their talk soon afterwards.

He saw DI Thompson leave the house and went to meet him.

"I'm staying" he said, "for now, at least".

He could read relief in the man's eyes. He must be more shocked at the crime than he let on.

"Connors will bring you to a hotel" he replied, and Castiel's gaze travelled back to the house. He knew he couldn't do anything while the forensics were still at work, and the sun was setting, and yet he wished he could stay. He would only hinder the others' work, though, and it was an irrational impulse anyway.

Connors cleared his throat, and he realized he'd been staring at the house. He turned to Thompson with what he hoped was an apologetic look and shook his hand and left with Connors after they had agreed to meet at eight o' clock in the morning at the DI's office.

He got in the car and looked at the house again. He was still watching it when it disappeared in the rear view mirror.

"I'll take you to the Astoria Hotel" the Constable explained, and Castiel thought that he should probably have asked where he was being brought. "It's nice and comfy. Not too expensive either".

He knew that Henricksen wanted them to keep the budget as low as possible and was therefore relieved to hear it. He always made sure not to book too expensive hotels when the Bureau was called to consult on a case. Balthazar had sat through more than one lecture on the subject, but still insisted that he had to be comfortable if he was to work properly – "comfortable" including a hotel bar and at the very least three stars in his mind.

Castiel had nothing against a comfortable bed – he'd slept on too many hard mattresses not to appreciate it – but he would never complain about his lodging. The work they did was important.

As it turned out, he needn't have feared. The hotel was indeed comfortable, his room was clean, and the receptionist was very friendly. She and Connors appeared to know each other, which made Castiel suspect that his recommendation hadn't been as casual as it seemed, but there was no reason to complain. Connors was a nice man, and the hotel more than met his expectations.

They came just in time for dinner, and to his relief, Connors left him to have it on his own. He wasn't good at small talk, and speaking of the case would have been considered inappropriate for reasons Castiel never really understood.

It was all that he was on his mind as he ate, and later in his room, he was still going over it, looking at the pictures Rachel had given him on his laptop.

It was strange. Why would a killer who was so ferocious to go into frenzy and eviscerate a man leave no traces in the rest of the house? No blood stains, no clues. It didn't make sense. And how had the killer got in? There were no signs of a break-in. But would George Stevens have trusted someone who was so unhinged as to commit the murder? Castiel knew that many killers, psychotic and non-psychotic, could fool others into trusting them. But this crime... Could someone who was planning on committing it convince the victim to let him into his house? Shouldn't there have been a gleam in his eye, a certain attitude, that told off –

Castiel sighed, annoyed at himself. He was getting whimsical. Of course an intelligent killer would have been able to con himself into the house.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't what had happened.

Feelings. Here they were again. He couldn't trust his instinct over the facts, especially when he wasn't in possession of all the facts.

He checked the titles of the books in the office and began to research them. As he had expected, all of them had to do with some form of mythology. He then looked up the pentagrams and learned that he had been right; they were supposed to protect people from supernatural influences.

The victim had been afraid. But from what? Had he simply imagined that creatures were after him? Or had the threat he'd tried to protect himself from been real, had it led to his death?

Balthazar called just as he was about to call him.

"Well, Cassie, it's a strange one, I'll give you that. The rest of the house is spotless. And then, of course, is the victim's collection. Normally I'd expect something like a hideout out back."

"There is no evidence that he was a survivalist" Castiel said.

"He didn't shoot around in the backyard, did he?"

"The neighbours didn't mention it. They would have".

"So he wasn't a regular gun nut either. And why all the books on lore and demons?"

"He was interested in the topic" Castiel answered, completely serious. He realized from Balthazar's sigh that he had once more given an obvious answer his colleague hadn't cared about.

"I know that" he said. "What I want to know is why".

Castiel thought about his own collection that ranged from Science Fiction to books about the solar system, and asked, "Does there have to be a reason?"

"In this case, I wouldn't be surprised if there was a reason for everything. Even people who're interested in this stuff don't paint pentagrams on their floor."

"No" Castiel said slowly, "Normally they don't."

He quickly told Balthazar what he had found out.

"He could have been crazy".

"Or there could have been a reason for his fear."

"So you think a ghost got him?"

"It doesn't have to be a ghost. The pentagram is supposed to protect one from many monsters" Castiel replied and paused a moment before adding, "maybe he saw the person who killed him as one."

"That's a stretch. I mean, I can see him being afraid of someone – but painting pentagrams?"

"Don't forget the salt" Castiel said, looking closely at a picture.

"What?"

"There was a salt-like substance on at least one windowsill".

He hadn't noticed it before because the line had been broken, but there was definitely salt or a substance that looked like it in a room on the first floor. He was angry at himself; he should have noticed. Normally he did notice. It was just a case, he told himself. Like any other.

"So we are searching for a crazy killer who killed a crazy person".

"Protecting oneself isn't crazy" Castiel said softly, "no matter what strange measure one takes."

Balthazar sighed. "I suppose you are right. Still – doesn't seem very safe to me."

They brainstormed a little longer without coming up with any ideas then hung up. Castiel continued to look through the pictures. But there was no clue. He would have to wait for the reports. Why did that make him nervous? He was used to waiting, and he had never been impatient. What was it about this case?

He rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. It was long past midnight. He had worked for over six hours without producing results.

He shut off his laptop and went to bed. He wanted to be rested when he met DI Thompson. Despite or maybe because of the hours he had spent staring at the pictures, he found it difficult to fall asleep.

Eventually, he dozed off. His sleep was full of images of the house. He slept fitfully and woke up before his alarm sounded, feeling like he'd barely slept at all. It wasn't often that a case haunted him, but this one did after he'd not even been on it a day and might not be working it much longer. This wasn't a good sign. He hoped that either the forensics had found something or that at the end of the week he would return to Headquarters.

He should have hoped.

Because he didn't.

He wanted, he had to see this case to the end.

And he couldn't say why.

Connors picked him up; the young Sergeant looked rested, and Castiel wondered if he had been in the house long. Maybe not.

DI Thompson hadn't slept better than him, by the looks of it. He greeted him wearily, offered him coffee which he gladly accepted and gesticulated towards a chair before letting himself fall into his own. He handed Castiel a report. It was short and to the point and signed by a R. Miller. He realized distractedly that Rachel hadn't told him her last name while he read it over; after he had laid in on the table, Thompson quickly repeated what he had read, frustration evident in his voice.

"Salt on the windowsills" he said, "and the pentagrams were painted with ordinary paint. No traces of the killer. No DNA, no fingerprints... It's like a phantom killed George Stevens."

"Anything on the victim?" Castiel asked. He had feared that they wouldn't get much from forensic. The house had been too clean. Had the killer cleaned it? No, that made no sense. He hadn't bothered to clean the blood in the living room.

Thompson nodded. "A few things, but I don't think it'll help much."

He opened a file in front of him.

"George Stevens, forty-three. Never married, hadn't worked in years. The house belonged to his parents. Where he got the money to pay for groceries, books, the weapons – we don't know. He had no family left. He seems to have stopped working – he was a carpenter – after – Remember the picture in the bedroom?"

"Yes."

"His sister. Melissa; three years younger than him. Died when she was twenty. She had taken a hike in the woods, and pieces of her body were found two weeks later. They were not able to find the missing parts; a bear must have killed her, eaten the rest".

"It was twenty years ago then", Castiel said, quickly calculating that she would have been forty years old.

Twenty years. George Stevens had lost his sister twenty years ago. And yet he had had her picture on his bedside table. Nothing else in the house told of a human connection. Just the one picture.

He must have been lonely. All alone in this house, no friends, no family. Only the memory of his sister to keep him company. A memory that must in the course of time have become tainted with nostalgia. They must have been close. He wouldn't have kept her picture otherwise, at least not where he could see it every day.

Castiel thought of Gabriel, somewhat wistfully. His brother had gone long before their father had passed away. For a long time, they hadn't know whether he was dead or alive, and when he had contacted them, it had only been to tell them that they should stop looking for him and that he was fine. Castiel understood why he had gone, knew that he hadn't wanted to fulfil the expectations their father had in him, but he hadn't forgiven him.

If one of them died, the other wouldn't have their picture on his bedside table.

He forced the thought away and concentrated on what else DI Thompson had to say. He took another picture of the folder and handed it to him. It showed Stevens' gun collection.

"Like I said: No idea where he got the money to pay for these. Or where he got them."

"It's not that difficult to buy weapons illegally" Castiel said.

"True, but he didn't even have a permit for one. It's just – the neighbours liking him, no shooting practice in the backyard... I know gun nuts, and he wasn't one".

Castiel looked at Thompson and could read a suspicion his face. It was logical. George Stevens had been scared of something, but he had only kept guns in one room of the house; he hadn't hunted, he hadn't shot targets. He must have done something with them, though.

They knew too little about the victim.

"Is there anyone who knew him?" he asked.

Thompson shrugged.

"We're giving a press conference at ten; I'll ask the public for information. Do you want to be there?"

Castiel thought quickly. On the one hand, his presence might bring more people forward; a FBI agent was something of a curiosity, and they would be more interested in the case. On the other hand, it might lead people to jump to conclusions, and they couldn't need that now.

He shook his head.

"I would like to take another look at the house" he said before he knew he was about to. He knew it was the right thing to do, though. He had to do something, and staring at pictures or waiting for someone to show up with information wasn't enough. Normally he was a patient man. Now, however...

"If you want" Thompson said, and Castiel heard a slight annoyance in his tone. He thought the agent believed they had overlooked something.

"I need something to do" he answered, making sure to say it lightly. He had no desire to aggravate Thompson. It would make working the case difficult.

A small smile appeared on his face, and Castiel knew he had been right. At least he had reacted correctly. There was no tension between them as Thompson showed him to a car. Castiel waved away his apologies that no one could drive him, since every officer they had was talking to the neighbours or working through the evidence, hoping there was a trace yet to be found. He was confident he could find the house on his own.

He did so without any troubles, showed the police man who was guarding it his ID and was admitted to the premises.

Once he was in the living room, looking at the spot where the body had lain not so long before, he didn't know what to do.

Normally, he would be here with a team; they would go through the evidence, talk at the press conferences – although he never talked there, preferring Balthazar or others to do so – and work their way towards the perpetrator. Now, he was alone, and he stood in an empty house.

It was empty. Not only because of the stillness of death that was haunting the rooms, now that the forensics had left; but because it had already been before someone had killed George Stevens.

There was nothing here but books and guns and one picture of someone who had long ago passed away. And now, not even that. The evidence had been stored, had been taken away, and all Castiel could feel was the loneliness that must have been George Stevens' companion for a long time.

He wasn't like this. He should stop thinking like this. He didn't romanticize the cases or victims, he didn't get involved.

But with this case, he couldn't help it and it scared him.

He thought of his own house, of his books, the fact that he didn't really keep any pictures and that he spent most of his free time alone and he swallowed before shaking his head. Comparing himself and the victim would bring nothing.

He had never felt lonely. He liked being alone. Really, why had he thought that George Stevens had been lonely? Maybe he preferred to be alone too. But this picture on the bedside table... He bit his lip. His sister had died twenty years ago. Many people would have put the picture away. George Stevens hadn't.

He walked into the office and looked at the books. Why that many books about mythology? The crime novel in the bedroom had been the only one he'd seen. All the others had to do with lore and ghosts and religion.

He simply didn't understand George Stevens, and he had to. If he understood the victim, he could understand why he had become a victim. He could find the killer.

He was startled from his thoughts by a noise. In the next moment, he wondered if he had imagined it, but then he heard it again.

Someone was moving upstairs. Gently and carefully, but Castiel had heard.

Should he call the man who was guarding the house? The intruder could be gone when they returned. And the noise had been so small, barely there at all. He might be wrong.

But there was something in his blood that told him that he wasn't. Someone was in the house.

He was glad that Balthazar had made him promise to always wear a gun when he was working. At the time he had considered it unnecessary since he was almost always surrounded by colleagues who wore guns, but now the weight of the weapon in his hand was a relief.

He moved up the stairs, careful not to make any form of sound; he didn't quite succeed and winced at every creak. The house had belonged to Stevens' parents, he remembered; it was old. No wonder the stairs creaked.

He didn't hear anything else from but his movements might cover it.

He stole through the rooms until only the bedroom was left, and he opened the door. His heart beat wildly in his chest.

There was no one there, and there was no evidence that there had been. And would someone have succeeded in sneaking past the guard? It was unlikely.

Castiel rubbed his eyes. This was leading nowhere. He was standing in an empty house, devoid of anything that could tell him what had happened. He looked at his watch and realized to his surprise that he had been in the house for over an hour. The press conference would start soon. Hopefully it would help them.

He walked back downstairs and into the living room, staring at the blood stain. It was a hot day, and the air was heavy with the scent of the blood.

He left.

He greeted the guard and drove away.

He still couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been in the house. It was ridiculous, of course. Where could they have gone? And what could they have been looking for? Whatever the killer wanted he could have taken with him after he had committed the crime. He didn't have to return. And there was nothing in the bedroom. The guns were long gone.

Castiel shook himself. There had been no one. His overactive imagination had made him believe that someone else was in the house. That was all.

He came back in time for the press conference, but still didn't want to join, so he slowly walked to the forensic department. As he had hoped, Rachel was there; it was always easier to discuss a case with someone one had already met instead of having to introduce himself.

They went to get coffee in the cafeteria. As she sat down opposite him, her shoulders slumped and he found himself wondering if she had worked the night through.

"There's nothing" she told him frustrated. "The house is clean. Spotless. No way of telling us how he got in. That there was even someone else in the house".

He nodded and she began asking him about Quantico. It was obvious that she needed a break, and he was happy to oblige. After three quarters of an hour – the press conference had already ended – he said goodbye and returned to Thompson's office.

The DI looked up from his desk, something like optimism in his eyes.

"A witness called. She said she knew Stevens".

It was more than what they had had so far.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Here's the next chapter. Dean will eventually make an appearance, be patient. **

**I hope you like it, please review. **

Castiel liked Missouri Moseley. She had a no-nonsense attitude and answered questions clearly without saying too much.

DI Thompson had asked him to join the interrogation, and he had gladly accepted. He preferred to listen to witnesses himself, looking into their eyes instead of watching a recording.

He let the other man ask the questions, contend to just observe for now.

She had looked at him with interest when he had been introduced but was now concentrating on Thompson as she told her story.

"I knew George Stevens. Knew him for years."

"His neighbours didn't" the DI said, "Even though he'd lived in the house all his life".

Missouri shrugged.

"Some died, some moved away. It was never a popular part of town to begin with. I don't think a neighbour from the times of his parents was left".

"How long did you know him?"

"Over ten years" she answered immediately, and Castiel was surprised. People had to think about how long they had known someone before answering, even if they had known they would be questioned. She, however, was sure. She wasn't nervous either.

"How would you describe your relationship?"

It was a routine question, but always worth putting before a witness. Missouri obviously wasn't impressed. She looked at the DI, not giving away anything.

"We were friends" she said at least, decidedly, maybe a bit too decidedly. "We saw each other now and then."

"Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt him?"

And now, something strange happened.

Not for Thompson, not for anyone who might later watch the tape, but for Castiel. Because even though she barely spared him a glance, he had the feeling that from this moment on, the witness talked to him.

"No".

There was hesitation there, Castiel knew it. How he knew he didn't know. The answer had come quickly. And yet...

"Can you think of a motive?"

"No".

Again this strange feeling, this she-didn't-hesitate-but-she-did and Castiel would have shaken his head if he hadn't remembered that he sat in the interrogation room and it would look strange.

"He was a good man" Missouri said and for the first time, Castiel saw grief.

"He was a good man" she repeated. "He had a few problems, of course. Everyone does".

Thompson straightened his spine.

"Problems? What kind?"

"Nothing specific".

The DI deflated before her eyes, and Castiel would have found it comical if he hadn't been wondering what Missouri had meant with Stevens' "problems". She had meant something; he was sure she hadn't said a word she hadn't meant.

"He didn't work. How did he live?"

"He did a few odd jobs now and then."

"That's hardly enough to explain how he came by" Thompson all but snapped, and Castiel opened his mouth to try and break the tension when the DI sank back further into his chair and rubbed his eyes. He had never seen anything like this in his town, and he had barely slept. Castiel looked at their witness and was relieved to find understanding in her eyes.

In fact, it was a little strange. She seemed to understand their frustration, as if she knew they didn't have evidence or clues.

"I don't know how" she said simply. She shot Castiel a shrewd look and added, "For some things there is no easy explanation".

The agent was sure that she was trying to tell him something. But why she couldn't do so in front of Thompson, or give them the information to begin with, he couldn't say. He wondered if he should ask her, but had the feeling that she would deny knowing anything.

"Did he tell you about his sister?" he asked, and this time he knew what Missouri wanted to tell him when she looked at him.

She was impressed.

"He spoke about her sometimes" she replied, and it was obvious to Castiel that she was choosing her words carefully.

"She meant a lot to him, and the way she died – "

She stopped, and there was something challenging in her manner. Thompson didn't realize and said, "It must have been difficult to hear that she was killed by a bear".

Missouri nodded and remarked, "That's what people say".

Castiel bit his lip. Again, he wanted to ask her if she wanted to tell him something. There was something strange about the middle-aged, black woman, something he couldn't put his finger on.

Why was she hinting at him without saying anything that could help them? Maybe she wasn't hinting at all. Maybe he was grasping at straws because this case had got under his skin like no case before.

He watched Thompson end the interrogation, the DI acting polite and obviously trying to make her forget his outburst, Missouri smiling and shaking their hands before leaving.

She held his hand a little bit longer than she had Thompson's. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

DI Thompson went back to his office; Castiel followed him without having been invited, feeling that he should.

The other man let himself fall into his chair and sighed.

"That didn't help".

"George Stevens seems to have been a very private person" Castiel said.

"That won't help us catch his killer". Thompson paused for a moment. "Did you think there was something off about her?"

Castiel did, but he didn't want to influence the DI.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know". Thompson looked down at his desk.

"Forget it. I'm seeing clues where they aren't any. It's just... this case..."

Castiel nodded and didn't miss the DI's surprised stare. Of course he would assume Castiel was used to such things. Because he was. And yet he had spent an almost sleepless night and was wondering about a woman who knew nothing.

"Every case is different" he replied, and to his relief Thompson accepted the explanation.

"We've got nothing" he said bitterly. "I don't think forensic's gonna bring us anything now. How can someone make such a mess in the living room and not leave a trace?"

Castiel didn't answer. The silence was enough to convey his thoughts.

The next three days were difficult. Castiel had nothing to do, Henricksen was already calling him and expecting him back once the week was over, they had no evidence, no clues, and Missouri stayed the only witness who had presented herself.

He got the report about the investigation in Melissa Stevens' death and realized that it was useless. She had been killed by a bear. The bear had never been found, but that didn't mean any foul play had been involved. Even if Missouri seemed to have her doubts.

The report on George Stevens' weapons stated that some were loaded with rock salt and silver bullets, making the whole thing more and more incomprehensible. Why would someone create such bullets if he could simply buy ordinary ones? It didn't make sense.

The autopsy report brought them no new information – it had been obvious that the injuries had been inflicted with a sharp-bladed weapon – except for one detail that made it clear how brutal the killer was: that George Stevens had been held down and eviscerated while he was still alive. They couldn't tell how he had been kept from moving. He had been strong and fit, and he hadn't put up a fight. There were no drugs in his system. Castiel spent an afternoon pouring over the report, hoping to detect something, anything that would help him clear the mystery, but he came up empty.

Soon he would return home. And he had nothing.

* * *

Another house, another town. The same assignment.

He smiled as he took in the protections. A little better than the last time, but still no problem.

It was a hot night again. He cherished the night against his skin, the skin he hadn't had in so long. When he had been told that he would return, he hadn't believed it at first. He was lucky that he had been chosen. It was an honour to do what he was doing, to serve the one true master.

He smiled and searched for an open window.

It didn't take long to find it.

* * *

In the early morning, Castiel found himself knocking on Missouri Moseley's door. He had gone through files, looking for similar cases; he had gone over the pictures again and again; he had once more been to the house without producing any result. He had drunk more coffee than usual, and that was saying something.

He hadn't even known that he would drive to Missouri Moseley's house instead of the police department when he left the hotel. And now here he stood.

She smiled and nodded when she opened the door, but she didn't look surprised. She offered him coffee. He gladly accepted.

"Are you getting anywhere?" she asked, and in the mood he had been in since she had left the interrogation room he only said, "I am not at liberty to discuss the investigation".

She shot him a sharp glance that clearly spoke of her not tolerating this behaviour in her own house, and Castiel took a deep breath and looked down on her kitchen table.

He didn't even know what time of day it was. This case had made him do things he normally never did, snapping at crime scene techs, standing in empty houses, and when he looked at his watch, he realized it was seven in the morning and that he ought to be more than glad that she was even up.

"I expected you" she said matter-of-factly.

"I suspected as much" he replied in the same tone, because he knew it to be true. There had been something hanging in the air during her interrogation, and it had been meant for him.

He waited.

"You are different" she said. "It's good. You'll have to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't tell you".

Castiel stood up, furious. He was aware that he was only using her answer to vent his frustration, but he didn't care. If she didn't want to tell him, he might as well leave.

Her hand on his arm stopped him.

"I didn't mean to make you angry" she said brusquely, "but you are not ready. You wouldn't believe me if I told you".

"Then why are you telling me that there is something I should know?"

She looked at him, and there was something in her eyes he couldn't read.

"Because you will be. Eventually. And you will have to look past everything."

He didn't know why, but he finished his coffee and bid her a polite goodbye.

His visit had brought him nothing, he reflected in the car. It wasn't sure she even knew something. Maybe she was simply strange and thought she did, one of the many people who always showed up during an investigation.

But she seemed so sincere –

His phone ringing startled him out of his thoughts. He checked, saw that it was Balthazar and stopped the car.

"Haven't heard from you in a while" his colleague greeted him.

"It's been three days".

"Yes, and Henricksen gets angrier ever day. I don't think you give him the reports he expected."

That was true. Castiel kept telling him that there was something they had missed, something sure to turn up. He didn't act like this. Normally, he didn't. But here he was.

"Tell me honestly: Is there anything to this case?"

The sincerity in Balthazar's voice shocked him.

"I – " he broke off because he couldn't voice his thoughts. Because he didn't know what his thoughts were exactly. He'd had coffee with a woman who might know something but probably did not. He had stared at pictures until he had almost gone blind. He had researched book titles and read the report on Melissa Stevens' death.

And yet he was still at the beginning.

"I don't know" he said. He should think of this as a murder case like any other, should return, forget about it. But he couldn't.

"Castiel..."

He was surprised to hear Balthazar use his correct name.

"For everyone, there is that one case. That one case. And I just want you to know – I'm here. Do what you have to do."

"Thank you" he said sincerely.

Balthazar chuckled.

"Or does this have to do with someone you met? Is there a pretty someone running around, investigating the case?"

He would never tell him, but he was thankful for his attempts to make light of the conversation. Balthazar was his friend, he realized, was well and truly his friend, and he decided to appreciate the fact more once he was back at Quantico.

They said their goodbyes and Castiel returned to the police headquarters.

There was a buzzing in the atmosphere. He knew what it meant. He could feel his spine straighten, his strides becoming more purposeful as he moved to Thompson's office.

The DI was waiting for him.

"The Chief of Denver just called" he said. "They have another one."

"Are they sure?" Castiel asked.

"Eviscerated, rest of the house spotless. It's a couple this time. And there are pentagrams and an arsenal in the house".

He paused. "We made news in the past few days, and they called me immediately. I mentioned that you were here, and they think you should take a look".

Castiel nodded and excused himself to call his boss.

Henricksen wasn't pleased, but he agreed that he should check it out.

"Call me immediately. If this is a case, they crossed state lines. Denver or Lawrence PD can fill out the forms and I'll send you a few men".

He debated whether or not to call Balthazar, then decided to do so. He felt certain, without having seen the crime scene, that this was the same killer. He shouldn't jump to conclusions, but he couldn't help it.

He would give Balthazar a fair warning. He would certainly be on the team; Henricksen knew how well they worked together.

"So your instinct was right?"

He ignored the glee in his friend's voice. He was obviously being extremely happy with Castiel finally admitting to himself that feelings and instinct could be useful.

"You might come soon" he said. "I think it best if we stay here, where everything began."

"No problem. I'll be down as soon as I get the ok."

Castiel hung up with a smile on his face. For all his faults, Balthazar was a good friend and agent.

Connors drove him back to the airport, looking excited. Castiel could understand him – it was his first serial killer, and despite knowing that he shouldn't be, he had to be anticipating the chase. Everyone did, the first time around.

"When will you be back?" he asked, trying not to let his enthusiasm show. He failed, but Castiel didn't tell him. Why not allow him to be excited before he realized what this was really about, violent death and grief and hatred.

"I am not sure. I have to look through all the evidence. If it points to the possibility that the same killer struck in Denver, I will have a few agents come here to help us".

He almost said "me" and immediately felt ashamed because of it. This wasn't his case alone. The police were doing all they could.

This time, the flight took a little less than one and a half hour. The plane that had brought him to Lawrence had returned to Quantico and he had to use a commercial flight, but there were enough that he didn't have to wait long.

During the flight, he pondered the similarities between the cases. Not only the method, but the victims – a couple and a single male who had the same strange things in their homes. Did they know each other? And if they did, what did it mean? If the pentagrams and the weapons were indeed similar, it seemed likely that it was this that had attracted the killer. But why? George Stevens had harmed no one...

He was theorizing without having seen the crime scene again. He had to stop. Balthazar might believe in instinct and feeling, Castiel didn't.

He closed his eyes and tried to get some sleep. He didn't know when he would allow himself the luxury of rest again, and he hadn't slept well since he had entered George Stevens' house.

He managed to fall into an uneasy sleep, strange pictures flashing before his mind's eye and leaving as quickly as they had come. He woke up with the feeling that he hadn't rested at all and stumbled towards the exit.

Another young officer, a woman this time who introduced herself as PC Hailes, drove him to the crime scene. Denver was a bigger town than Lawrence, considerably so, and people were standing outside the crime scene tapes, leering at the house. Hailes slipped him in without causing a sensation; if it had become known that a FBI agent was here, attention would have been drawn to the case, more than there was already. Until now, the press hadn't connected the two crimes, but it was only a matter of time. Castiel getting in unnoticed, however, gave them a head start. Not a big one, but still.

The DI, Brackenridge, young and eager, looked less shaken than Thompson, but he was at the beginning of the investigation and didn't know what Castiel did, that they would find precious little clues. He seemed to believe that this being the second crime gave them an advantage.

"Keith and Tracy McCall" he explained as he led Castiel into the house. "Both twenty-seven. Neighbours say they were nice, regularly gave parties, were popular. No reason anyone should do – this".

His slight pause before the word "this" told Castiel that he hadn't seen a crime scene like this before, and he wondered how long he had been a DI. He looked a few years younger than the agent himself. Maybe this was his first big case. No wonder he was hesitant and optimistic at the same time.

"I was told there were certain... surprising elements" he said carefully.

"Yes. That's what's weird. Really, I wouldn't have called otherwise – I mean, the murder is freaky, but the guns and the things painted on the floors and ceilings, and the weapons – all seems like the memo Lawrence PD gave out. Think it's a serial killer?"

"I am not sure" he answered diplomatically as he changed into the plastic suit, his trench coat kept safe by a forensic tech. The material clung to his skin. It was even hotter here than in Lawrence, and Castiel, who rarely felt heat, was beginning to sweat.

He quickly moved and found the bodies where he had known he would, in the living room.

They were lying side by side, their organs in a circle around them. Both of them were naked. Castiel knew this had been the same man who had killed George Stevens. The few details they had given at the press conference wouldn't have enabled anyone to copy it so perfectly. Apart from there being two victims instead of one, it was the same crime scene.

"Is there a symbol under the carpet?" Castiel asked.

Brackenridge nodded, his eyes widening. "It's a pentagram. In a circle. Part of the circle has been cleaned away, though".

Castiel made a mental note of asking the forensics in Lawrence if that had been the case in George Stevens' house.

He let Brackenridge lead him through the other rooms. He found just what he had expected, and it was difficult to fight the sense of déjà vu as he explained to him what Enochian was and what the books in a small room that had served as a library were about.

In a room next to the bedroom there was s cupboard full of weapons. And bottles of water.

What was it about the water? Why had the victims kept water? They had no need too. They could draw more than enough from the taps. The water in the bottles had been analysed; there was nothing extraordinary about it.

Everything in this home was just like it had been in George Stevens'.

No. That wasn't right.

There was one important difference.

As the statement of the neighbours had shown, the McCalls had been popular; they had pictures of their friends, relatives and wedding in almost every room. There were books besides those on lore, there were decorations, mostly copies of famous paintings, everything had a lived-in feel to it.

The house wasn't empty like the first victim's had been.

They might have shared their preference for pentagrams and weapons – and salt, Castiel realized, looking at the windowsills – but in every other respect they had been the polar opposite of one another.

Normally, in cases like these, the killers had a preferred type. Both the McCalls and Stevens had had strange items at their homes, but how had he known? On the outside, they had been different. On the outside, no one had suspected.

Had he been to their house before?

The DI and Castiel went back downstairs and he stood in the living room again, looking at the bodies.

A feeling he had never known before came over him.

Hatred was not part of his job. Hatred obscured thoughts, made one chase blindly after the murderer; Castiel had always been careful to not let feelings get in the way.

But he hated whoever had done this. The feeling was shocking in its intensity, and he couldn't understand.

The killings were brutal, but he had seen worse, the victims had been younger. Why was he standing here, thinking of what he would like to do to the one responsible?

"Is it true that – he does this to them when they are..."

Brackenridge was standing next to him, disgust and pity on his face.

Castiel nodded.

It was no use to point out that they had to wait for the reports to be sure.

Castiel was sure, and he was angry that he was, he was angry that he hated the killer and that it was messing with his thoughts.

He went through the house again, determined that he would think logically and go through every drawer.

He found nothing. The McCalls seemed like a normal couple. And they had an arsenal in a room.

According to Brackenridge, their friends and relatives had been shocked to hear what they kept in their house. Castiel assumed they had hidden the pentagrams when anyone came to visit them.

"What did they do?" he asked. The DI shrugged his shoulders. "Both freelancers. She a writer, he a journalist. They weren't doing too badly."

There was something they and Stevens had in common then. Even if it was barely so.

They had had a lot of free time. Stevens hadn't worked at all, and the McCalls could decide for themselves how much they worked.

What had they been doing in their free time? It must have to do with the symbols and weapons. But Castiel couldn't imagine what activity would require those.

Why the water? Why the lore?

"Maybe it's a cult" Brackenridge suggested. Castiel thought about it, but decided it was unlikely that they wouldn't know about a cult that spawned over several states and whose members kept guns in their homes.

It might be, however, that the victims were members of a specific group. Not a cult, but maybe something like survivalists.

If so, they would have to work out what group. There were likely more than three members, and there might be more murders.

He told Brackenridge what he thought. The young DI agreed with him and went to make a few phone calls.

Before he did that, he told Castiel that he would fill out the forms needed.

The agent called Henricksen.

He was glad to hear that Balthazar would come; for the time being, the two of them should work together and send evidence and reports to Quantico. He was secretly relieved that he didn't have to deal with a task force. He wasn't comfortable around too many people, especially when he was the leader.

They decided that Balthazar would come to Lawrence; they would work the case from there, where everything had begun.

He hung up with an overwhelming sense of relief.

At least he wasn't trying to make sense of this alone anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Someone might make an appearance in this chapter. **

The next few days were frustrating. Castiel returned to Lawrence, Brackenridge promising that he would send any information he could get. He seemed happy that someone else would help him on the case.

Castiel had stayed two days in Denver without making any progress, and when he arrived, he was exhausted.

Instead of Connors, Balthazar awaited him at the airport.

He frowned.

"You look like hell".

"I can't help what I look like" Castiel snapped and saw that his friend was taken aback at his outburst. It was untypical for him. He rarely raised his voice, no matter how difficult the case.

He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed it over his eyes.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to – "

"That's it. I'm taking you back to the hotel".

"It's barely three pm –" Castiel tried to protest, but Balthazar shook his head.

"No. You are exhausted. Did you even sleep? I'm taking you to the hotel, and that's it."

Castiel would have liked to refuse, but he couldn't. He hadn't slept since he had left Lawrence, if he didn't count dozing fitfully in a motel bed that wasn't as comfortable as the one he'd left in Kansas, and he could feel the tiredness seeping through his bones.

Therefore he didn't argue and simply followed Balthazar to his car.

He fell asleep as soon as he sat down, the heavy, dreamless sleep of exhaustion, and was surprised when Balthazar shook him to tell him they were there.

"Really, what would you do without me, Cassie?" he asked as he pulled him towards the entrance of the hotel. By the time they walked into the reception hall, Castiel had found his bearings and smiled politely at the receptionist. He even made it to his room without leaning on his friend, who escorted him anyway because, as he explained, he didn't trust him not to return to the PD if he didn't.

He didn't feel as tired as he had before his nap in the car, and he decided to only lie down for a few minutes. He set his alarm to go off in half an hour and put his trench coat away.

He didn't expect to immediately drift off into a deep sleep again, so deep that when his alarm rang, he only extended his arm and shut it off. He didn't even realize what he was doing while he did it.

Therefore he awoke hours later, just in time to get a quick dinner at the restaurant.

He sighed as he made his way downstairs. He had wanted to talk about the case with Balthazar. They had talked on the few several times of course, but it would be different to go over the evidence together.

And it wouldn't help their search for the killer that he had wasted a whole afternoon.

Balthazar was still sitting in the restaurant and beamed when he saw him.

"I was just about to assemble a search party. Did you rest well?"

Castiel resisted once more the urge to roll his eyes and sat down opposite him.

"You could have called".

Balthazar looked up from the remains of his dessert just as a waiter came and asked Castiel what he wanted. He ordered a simple main course; the man who was obviously tired and wished to close up as soon as possible. He happily sauntered off and his friend said, "I was worried." His eyes were staring straight into Castiel's, waiting for a reaction, perhaps an explanation that he could not give.

It was such an unexpected response that Castiel didn't answer, enabling Balthazar to continue. "How many cases have we worked together? I have never seen you like this – you looked like a ghost when you got out of the plane. And you never fall asleep on me, no matter how tiring the day was, and now you barely stayed conscious long enough to get in the car".

Castiel didn't say anything because he felt the truth of his statements. This case was making him do things – forgetting to eat and sleep, when he was always careful to keep a schedule, getting annoyed at the forensic experts because they didn't get results, almost screaming at a young officer because she didn't get his coffee order right – no other case ever had.

If he was honest with himself, he was worried too.

He looked down at the table cloth and began picking at a lose thread. He was aware he was avoiding Balthazar's eyes, and that the other agent must be aware of it too. It didn't help.

"This case – "

"The case isn't everything. You can't run yourself ragged over it. You never do that; I know you make sure to sleep at least four hours in a day and get a snack every twelve hours".

Castiel's head snapped up. He hadn't realized his friend knew his schedule so well. At any other time, it would have made him glad. Not many people knew him well. But now, he felt strangely irritated that he would be considered so predictable.

A moment later he realized what he had thought and wondered if he was going insane.

"Henricksen noticed it too" Balthazar continued, "he told me to take the burden of your shoulders. He never told me that before."

"There is no reason to – "

"There is every reason" Balthazar said.

Just as Castiel was about to explain that no one should worry about him, while he knew that the opposite was true, his food arrived and he politely thanked the waiter and asked if he could pay immediately.

The man looked relieved. Castiel was searching his wallet when he heard Balthazar take out his, and he raised his head to find him paying and giving the man a generous tip.

"What?" he asked when Castiel shot him a wondering look, "It's all on the cost of the Bureau anyway".

Castiel couldn't think of anything to say to that. Perhaps this was a mistake, because Balthazar began again to ask him about the case.

"It's gruesome. But we've had worse. Why, Cassie? I don't get it".

"Me neither" he replied tiredly, picking at his food. He didn't really have an appetite.

Balthazar noticed, of course, and glared at him. "You are going to eat. When was the last time you had a bite anyway?"

Castiel quickly thought. "About two pm – "

"In the plane?"

"Yesterday" he admitted, looking down at his plate again.

"Castiel, this isn't you".

Balthazar so rarely used his first name instead of the demeaning nickname that he had been prepared to think he'd forgotten what it was.

"I know" he said helplessly, "I know. It's just – something – "

He couldn't explain. From the moment he had seen George Stevens' house, this case had captured him, demanded his attention, made him neglect himself. And he couldn't explain.

"Promise me something" Balthazar interrupted him, still in this unusual sincere voice that Castiel barely recognized as his. "Don't ruin yourself over it. There's a chance that we won't find the guy. Don't get obsessed. Please, Cassie – take care of yourself. Or at least let me look after you".

He couldn't reply. His throat felt closed off and he took another bite, forcing it down as he felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. It was stupid. He was an idiot. This was just a case. He had to work it like any other.

Everyone knew stories about agents who had become obsessed with cases. It never ended well. Divorce, insanity – if they got lucky, a lonely old age staring at files. Castiel used to wonder how they could have let it come this far.

He was starting to understand. And it scared him.

"Okay, here's the deal" Balthazar said, sitting back and returning to the persona Castiel knew so well. "You're going to eat and we're going to make small talk, and then we're going to have a drink at the bar and perhaps will speak about the case, but not so much. And then you're going to get more rest. You still look pale".

He always looked pale, but this was hardly the time to point it out, so he simply nodded gratefully.

He managed to clear his plate, and had to admit that it didn't taste bad. Balthazar meanwhile sipped his water and gave him an update on office gossip, which he had never been interested in, but was thankful for. He could let it flow by and allow himself to relax while he was cutting the meat.

Castiel wasn't sure whether or not he wanted a drink afterwards, but Balthazar dragged him into the bar just as the waiter was beginning to clear the room.

"I don't think we'll get reimbursed for that" he said.

Balthazar shrugged. "Watch me". He grinned. "It's all just a matter of how to clarify what you consume".

Castiel wanted to tell him what he thought about this original way of thinking about money they were supposed to use to find criminals when Balthazar turned around and asked the bartender, a friendly elderly black man, for the most expensive Scotch he had.

"I told you: Watch me" he said when he saw Castiel's reproachful look.

He was too tired to argue, and the Scotch was good.

"So" Balthazar began, like he would about any other case, the only sign that he knew it to be different a slight hesitation in his manner as he continued, "We have nothing. The victims were cut open alive. We don't know how he made them hold still. We don't know how he got in. There are no traces of him. They had guns and water and books on folklore. According to the reports, the guns were loaded with silver bullets and rock salt; if they weren't loaded with normal ammunition, that is. And there were – I forgot to tell you. The pentagram underneath the carpet? There was a part missing too. Someone had scratched away the paint, just a little of it. Just enough to make a hole in the circle."

"Almost like trying to make it useless" Castiel mumbled, watching his Scotch swirl inside the glass.

"What?"

"They're protective symbols. If there's something missing..."

"If you believe in this stuff."

"The victims did" he reminded him. Balthazar nodded.

"Do you think the killer did too?" he asked.

Castiel sighed. "I don't know. But it certainly seems ritualistic."

"Yes, but what kind of ritual..." Balthazar trailed off. "And what club where the victims in? They have too much in common and at the same time too little. They weren't in contact. We checked."

"No friends, no – "

"Nothing, Cassie, I tell you".

Castiel looked at the bottles that lined the wall but didn't really see them as he went over the details of the case.

"I talked to Missouri Moseley" Balthazar added. "I figured I would look at everything. She was very polite, but I believe she's a bit – special, don't you think?"

"She gave us her statement voluntarily" Castiel replied, "She and George Stevens were friends."

"Yes, it's just – well, an instinct. There's more to her than meets the eye".

Balthazar paused, obviously waiting for one of Castiel's sermons against instinct, but he said nothing.

The other man looked confused as he continued, "Went over his sister's death too."

"There's nothing there".

"Aside from the fact there was no bear sighting in decades in the area before she died. And none after."

Castiel looked at him. He hadn't thought of checking if there had been any bears in the area before Melissa Stevens' death. It showed once more that he had been letting the case get to him: Normally he was more meticulous. He had checked if there had been any sighting off the bear after the attack, had even called an expert who had reassured him that it wasn't unusual that it had never been found. He could have moved on, been hunted down or had an accident. There were many possible scenarios.

"They never found the bear" he said, "that doesn't mean – "

"No one ever saw the bear. There is no evidence it was a bear. Apparently it was the logical conclusion, so they called it bear."

"But what else – "

"Exactly."

Castiel took a sip. It could be a dead end. Melissa Stevens had died twenty years ago. But her brother had still kept her picture on his bedside table.

She had been important to him. She could help him understand the victim. And understanding the victim might help him to understand the killer.

"I will go back to the house" he said. "There might be something about his sister's death there".

It was a flimsy excuse, but he wanted to see it again. Needed to see it again. He didn't know why. He hadn't felt that way about the McCall's house.

"I need you to go over the evidence" he said when Balthazar shot him a glance. The McCall evidence hadn't yet been fully processed and would arrive in the course of the next day.

His friend sighed and emptied his glass.

"I will. But you will go there first thing tomorrow morning. Not now. Promise?"

Castiel did. Balthazar deserved it.

That didn't prevent him from interpreting "tomorrow morning" in any way he chose fit to, however, and so, when he woke up before sunrise and knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep, he left the hotel and went to the house.

There was no PC in front of the crime scene, not anymore. The press attention had died down (but would undoubtedly start all over again when they realized the murderer was a serial killer, in which case they would have to put a guard before it again) and all the evidence had either been processed or taken away.

What exactly Castiel wanted to find, he didn't know. He only knew that Balthazar had told him something, that there was something strange in George Stevens' life, that he might understand him better if he found out what had happened to his sister.

It wasn't logical, but he was desperate enough.

He took a flashlight out of the car, reluctant to turn on the light in the house for reasons he couldn't name, and opened the door. He'd held the key, one of the keys, for a few days now.

He stood in the living room and looked at the spot the body had been. Where could he have kept information on his sister, if he had had any at all?

He'd check the office first.

The books were slowly starting to accumulate dust, and it made Castiel strangely sad. As the light wandered over the shelves, he noticed one with a cricked back. It had evidently been read more often than others.

He took it out and he quickly looked at the title.

_Legends of the Tribes._

It didn't tell him much, but the book opened on a page, and he decided to take a look.

A newspaper article was clipped to a page.

_Melissa Stevens, 20, victim of a bear attack_

_Melissa Stevens, whose mortal remains were found three days ago, was the victim of a bear attack, the Chief of Police revealed today at a press conference._

"_It was a tragic and unexpected attack" he said, "But these things do happen. We are trying to find the bear. Our sympathy goes to the victim's family."_

It was like any other article Castiel had read about similar subjects, and he concentrated on the photograph that was printed under the headline.

It wasn't the same picture that Stevens had kept in his bedroom, but looked like it had been taken around the same age. Castiel wondered if it had been her brother who had taken it, not knowing why he suddenly found it important to know. The paper was old and it seemed to have been handled often. It was almost transparent. Melissa's face, however, was still visible, as visible as the one on the picture, forever young. Whenever he had taken the article in his hands, he must have been careful not to touch the picture. He didn't want it to fade. He didn't want to spoil it, even if it was just a picture on a page of a newspaper.

Castiel was once more struck by the devotion it took to carry a memory for twenty years. Memories faded. But George Stevens had held on to that of his sister.

They must have been close. They had still been living together when it had happened, and he had probably hated himself for letting her walk out of the front door.

His thoughts returned to Gabriel for the second time in a week. He hadn't thought about him for months until this happened. He couldn't even say when they had last talked – two years ago, perhaps. His brother had called to let him know he was still alive. They hadn't spoken long. There hadn't been anything to say. They had forgotten what it was like to be brothers. It was difficult to remember a time when it had been different, when they had been young.

Why did he find himself wondering if Gabriel still had the same number, Castiel wondered. Why had it come to this?

Here he was, standing in an empty house, staring at an article, thinking about his brother. He really should concentrate.

He looked at the book instead of the article and found something interesting. Whether or not it was helpful, he wasn't certain.

On the page opposite of the one the article was clipped to there was an entry about a creature, a legend of the Algonquian peoples.

_Wendigo. Meaning: "Evil that devours". According to the legend, a man who eats human flesh becomes a monster that continues to haunt the world, looking for meat among those whose kinship he left behind. He knows no mercy. Forever being tormented by the knowledge of what he has lost, he hates humanity for that very fact, and will readily devour anyone who comes into his path. _

There was a picture of a monster under it, obviously a Wendigo. It had a human form, but dark eyes, and looked big and powerful.

Near the end of the page someone, presumably Stevens, had written two words.

_Fire. Silver._

Castiel frowned. What did this mean? A Wendigo – a creature who ate human flesh. An article about the investigation in Melissa Stevens' death.

Why would George Stevens put these two together?

Unless he had believed that a Wendigo had killed his sister. Impossible as it was, it would explain the sigils and weapons. If he had been convinced he was hunting a monster – and there had been silver bullets –

But if this was the case – why did the McCalls own similar items? There had been no report of a tragedy in their past. They came from happy families. None of their acquaintances had reported them to be in any way interested in folklore, and yet they had assembled a collection very similar to Stevens'. Books and weapons and sigils. Silver bullets and water.

Castiel felt that he was almost there – that the answer lay in front of him, but outside his grasp. It was very frustrating, and he tried to connect the dots. But it seemed that there weren't any connections. As he thought about it, he leaved through the book, read more about creatures, myths, sentences that barely caught his eye. Steve had written on other pages as well.

_Beheading._

_A bamboo dagger blessed by a Shinto priest. _

_A stick carved by Virgins, dipped into lamb blood._

_Silver bullet in the heart._

_Brass. _

Why would he write down these words?

Why would anyone want to?

Why would anyone paint pentagrams on his floor?

Why these victims? Their hobbies had been strange, but they hadn't hurt anyone. No one had even known about it.

And they were dead.

The McCalls, a young happy couple.

Stevens, who had been lonely and believed that a monster had killed his sister.

They had nothing in common. Nothing if you looked from the outside, at least. And they had had no common friends either.

The killer must have known them both. But he had left no evidence in their lives.

Someone who had known them. Maybe had even been welcomed by them. Had subdued them without using drugs, without punching them unconscious. And then he had decorated the room with their remains. What kind of man could do something like that and walk calmly out of the house? Disappear and not draw any attention?

He noticed he was clenching the book and looked back down at it.

Castiel huffed. It was useless, utterly useless, to read about George Stevens' sister and a Wendigo.

He was hunting a killer. He didn't have time to read stories.

Yet he put the book in a plastic bag he'd taken with him, just in case. He could at least show it to Balthazar.

He felt compelled to check upstairs once more, and decided to give in to the impulse. He had already wasted his time by coming here – no, not entirely wasted. He knew what Stevens had thought about his sister's death, and it might just explain the strange items in his house. Nothing spoke against looking upstairs again.

The stairs creaked slightly, and he was reminded of sneaking up to see if anyone was there.

There had been a noise; he was sure of it. Thinking back now though – had there really been a noise? Had he simply been nervous? No one had been in the house. There were no places to hide. He should have found whoever had got in.

It seemed so ridiculous now. The rest and the dinner had done him good. Balthazar was right; this wasn't like him. He felt calm wash through him. He was one of the best agents the Bureau had ever had, and he would live up to his reputation. He took a few deep breaths, feeling lighter.

This was what his father had raised him for. He had always been meant to be an agent, and he excelled at it. One case wouldn't change that.

Maybe it was strange to relax in a house where a murder had taken place a few days before, especially if he only used a flashlight to see where he was going, but he didn't mind. For the first time since he had entered the crime scene, he felt like he could think clearly again.

He would work this case like any other, then return to the Bureau and his office. He would even allow Balthazar to drag him out one night, as a thank you for what he had done for him so far.

He immediately went into the bedroom, the room where Stevens had kept the picture of his dead sister, the room he must have thought about her the most, sitting on the bed, looking at the bedside table...

He was contemplating what he must have thought while looking at it, letting his gaze sweep over the room once more, turning with his flashlight. Why he did it, he had no idea; it was an automatic gesture, born out of the desire to always see what was behind him.

The last time he had looked over everything, after he had entered, the room had been empty. The guns had been cleared from the cupboard, the picture was lying in the evidence locker; it had been as empty as any room whose inhabitant had left for ever.

This had been two minutes ago.

This time, the light fell on a man standing in front of the door.

He seemed just as surprised as Castiel, and even as the agent was reaching for the gun and realized he had left it at the hotel and for once broken his promise to Balthazar (another one, he thought darkly) he spoke.

"Awesome. A witness. Now what am I going to do with you?"

**Author's note: I admit I like Balthazar. Since I am not only writing longer chapter, but taking more time to update, I am working on letting the story unfold and put in more details than usual. Please tell me what you think. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: The first interaction between the two. Please leave a review, it would mean a lot. **

He must have got lost in his head. The man must have sneaked up behind him while he had been contemplating George Stevens and his sister. He had allowed a suspect to trap him. And he didn't have his gun.

Castiel slowly moved his hand. If he could reach his phone...

"I wouldn't do that if I were you".

The man no longer sounded surprised, but cocky. He was smirking at him.

Castiel unexpectedly felt angry.

The man was taller than him, but not much. He wasn't armed, at least he could see no gun in his hand or bulge in a pocket that would show he was carrying a weapon.

Castiel could take him. He could fight, he had studied Martial Arts.

"I wouldn't" the man said. His thoughts must have been written on his face, Castiel realized. He couldn't allow him to anticipate what he was planning to do.

"You are under arrest" he said. "I'm a FBI agent."

The man laughed.

"Really? You're going to arrest me?"

"You walked into a crime scene and called me a "witness"" Castiel pointed out before he could stop himself. He took out the handcuffs and moved towards him.

The man looked at him. Castiel registered a mix of pity and regret in his eyes before he found himself unable to move.

Utterly unable to move. He stood there, the handcuffs in his right hand, trying to make a sound, but it felt like he had been turned to stone.

"I'm not saying I don't understand you. Once – man, once I would have ganked my own ass. But I've got things to do, and it would be better for all if we went our separate ways. Oh, and keep this to yourself. No one would believe you anyway."

He would never be able to say if he had imagined it or not, but the man's eyes turned black, and then there was a pain in his head and he lost consciousness.

* * *

He hadn't had so much fun in a long time. At least in none he cared to remember. What was important was who he had become, not who he had been. And it was time to have even more fun.

Another guy, this time. He was rather sad. He had enjoyed the couple. If only not so many of them lived alone...

He would have to do.

Plus, he lived in an apartment, so that was new.

He quickly checked the protections and soon knew they weren't a problem.

He had a little less time at his disposal – the sun would rise soon – but he intended to make the most of it.

* * *

When he came to, his phone was ringing and the sun was shining through the windows.

He picked up.

"Where are you? You went to the house, didn't you?"

Balthazar sounded annoyed, and Castiel really didn't need this right now.

He had to tell him that they should sent a team and go over the house again because a suspect had knocked him unconscious, and opened his mouth to say so.

Nothing came out.

Were it the words of the man? "No one would believe you".

No one would. Castiel had been unable to move. He had been stopped by something. He had felt its presence.

It was impossible.

And yet it had happened. The plastic bag with the book lay next to him, the handcuffs on his other side. His head hurt.

"Cassie?"

He cleared his throat.

"Sorry, Balthazar, I was – I found something about George Stevens' sister".

"I'll be right over".

"No need" he said quickly. "I'm done. I'll meet you at the station".

"Alright" Balthazar answered, obviously suspicious, but he simply hung up, and Castiel breathed a sigh of relief as he stood up.

His head didn't hurt that bad, he wasn't dizzy. He didn't have a concussion, then.

He walked out of the house, going through his memories, and tried to understand what had taken place.

Had the man he had seen been the killer? His first words pointed in that direction – but he hadn't harmed him, even though he could have done so. Castiel hadn't been able to move, and he was certain that the man had been responsible. Was that what he had done to the victims? Why hadn't he killed Castiel too, then? And how had he done it? He hadn't come close enough to hit him, not until he had been standing there, trying to move. Maybe some form of suggestion or hypnosis, but it was unlikely.

He didn't understand.

And what about –

He remembered the man's black eyes. They had turned black, completely black, right before he had blacked out. But had they really – no, it didn't seem possible.

He sat down in the car and drove to the police department.

Balthazar was waiting for him.

He didn't have to say anything. He simply raised an eyebrow.

Castiel put the bag in his hands and said, "He was obviously convinced that his sister had been killed by something other than a bear. I'm going for coffee".

He left before Balthazar could respond. He got coffee from the machine near autopsy. It was cheap and strong, and he didn't care for taste, not after what had happened.

He went into the room that had been assigned to them and sat down. He hesitated for a moment before taking a piece of paper and a pen.

If he believed that what he had seen had been real – and the slowly receding pain in his head told him so – he had to write down what he remembered about the man. And he had to tell the others. It had been stupid not to do so. He could be anywhere by now.

Slowly, methodically, he wrote down everything he could remember, from their conversation to a description of the suspect.

He had been taller than Castiel, so over six feet.

Age: Early thirties.

Brown hair, green eyes. Castiel hesitated a moment before writing down the colour, then, angry at himself, pressed the pen down so hard that he almost ripped the paper. Green. The man's eyes had been green. Very strikingly so, in fact. He had probably thought them black after he had received the hit on the head.

He'd worn jeans, a t-shirt that might have been grey, a plaid shirt and a jacket over it.

Castiel brought the pen up to his lips. What else? He had been cocky; he hadn't seemed threatening.

And that was it. The agent hadn't been scared. At least he hadn't been fearful to lose his life. If this had been the killer, why should he feel so at ease? Then again, he shouldn't give too much about feelings. He had often found serial killers to be polite, and it wouldn't be a surprise if this one was very well-spoken in his ordinary life.

Castiel sighed. He had let the killer slip through his grasp, or at the very least a suspect. He would have to talk to Balthazar. They had to make a plan.

But when his friend entered a few minutes later, he put the list away and didn't say anything.

The rest of the day dragged by, and he didn't know why he didn't tell anyone. Someone had attacked him at the crime scene. They should know. He kept it to himself and he couldn't understand why. He wasn't afraid that nobody would believe him. He wasn't. And yet the attacker's words kept taunting him. He had no proof of what happened, and everyone knew he had been on edge. He could have fallen down and hit his head. He had dreamed the whole thing, they would say, had run himself ragged until he had begun to hallucinate. He might be taken off the case.

"What I don't understand is why" Balthazar said, and Castiel forced himself to listen.

He made a motion with his head, telling him to continue.

"Why would he come to believe that his sister had been killed by a Wendigo?"

"Maybe it was a way of talking the blame of himself."

"She was killed by a bear. He can't have thought it was his fault."

"Maybe he did. Maybe he sat on his bed, looked at her picture and wondered if there was a word, a plea he could have used when she left the house to make her stay." Castiel stopped and realized he had voiced his own thoughts after Gabriel had left. Before he had slowly forgotten what having a brother meant. He continued quickly.

"Thinking a supernatural creature did it might have helped him."

"I'm not sure about "helped". He lived alone, had no friends. He kept unregistered guns and painted pentagrams on his walls. I don't think he was living healthy, Cassie".

There could be no mistaking the look his friend gave him before adding, "Obsessions can be dangerous."

He fought down the irritation he felt; he didn't want to be angry at him. It wasn't an obsession, but he could understand why it might look like one. It wasn't. He was interested in the case. That was all.

Castiel didn't know how to reply. Everything he said would simply be interpreted in a different way. He wouldn't convince Balthazar that he wasn't obsessed with the case.

He didn't have to answer because Thompson opened the door. And just like the last time, Castiel knew what had happened.

"Enid" he said. He didn't have to say more.

"Oklahoma?" Balthazar asked. "There is no pattern I can see".

"Me neither" Castiel sighed as he stood up.

Enid didn't have an airport, so they had to drive. It would take them over three hours.

Balthazar sat down behind the wheel despite Castiel's protests.

"Get some sleep. You have been up since dawn. Rest".

Castiel didn't think he would be able to sleep, which was why it shouldn't have surprised him that he only woke up when Balthazar pulled up to the house.

He wanted to apologize, but his friend only got out of the car.

The DI, a woman in her early forties named Hillers, greeted them and showed them the flat.

There wasn't much to see. The victim had been called Martin Patterns, he had been living alone. The flat was clean except for the living room, where the body of the victim lay. Books of mythology, pentagrams on the floor, salt on the windowsills. An arsenal in a room.

It was all becoming so repetitive that Castiel had to force himself to go through the apartment.

What was going on? One minute Balthazar told him he was obsessed, the next he was barely interested in the crime scene.

He was lying to himself. He knew what was going on. He had taken the piece of paper that he hadn't shown his friend with him and could feel it burning a hole in his pocket. The man he had seen.

The man would come to this flat. Castiel was sure. He didn't know why, but he was sure. The man had been at Stevens' house, had returned to the scene of the crime if he was the killer, and he would do so again.

He should have told Balthazar. He should have alerted the police. Instead, he spent the rest of the night and the next day hearing what he had already heard, seeing what he had already seen and convinced that the man would return tonight.

Castiel would be waiting for him.

He made his way out of the hotel soon after sundown, having told Balthazar that he would go to bed early. His friend had been very relieved at the idea, and Castiel felt ashamed as he started the car.

His gun was in his pocket, he had his handcuffs, he had his phone.

What he was doing was absolutely insane. He shouldn't confront a suspect on his own.

And yet he was doing it.

This went against everything he had learned, against everything his father had taught him.

He stopped the car a street away from the house.

He would have to break in if he wanted to wait undisturbed. If the PC who was guarding the house saw him go in and not leave, he would call for backup. Balthazar would come, and his plan –

What was his plan? Again, he realized that what he was doing was stupid. Yet somehow it seemed the only right thing to do.

It was disgustingly easy to break into the apartment. The building itself didn't even have a security camera, and there was only one PC standing in front of the door. Castiel only had to pull down the fire alarm for the man to come running while he hid in a corner next to the elevator.

He had the keys. He had asked DI Patterns for them the moment the forensics were done, and she hadn't demanded a reason, had simply handed them over.

He shut the door behind him just as he heard the first neighbours asking questions. The PC would be busy for a while. He would surely find a way out once the night was over.

He didn't turn on the lights. He sat down on the sofa and took out his gun, ready to shoot if necessary. He put his flashlight next to him. Castiel knew that he might wait for a long time.

He was right. The hours ticked by, every minute seemingly slower. He waited patiently. He felt no tiredness, no hunger, only the certainty that the man would come.

Someone did.

But it wasn't the man.

Castiel heard someone moving in the bedroom. He couldn't explain how they had got past him – had they climbed up the facade? Had he dozed off? It didn't matter, though. He grabbed his gun tighter and took his flashlight in his left hand.

He moved as swiftly and silently as he could; he registered that the man seemed to be far more unconcerned about being heard than he had been at Stevens' house. Briefly, before he opened the door, the thought that what he was doing was insane and that he should call Balthazar flashed through his mind, but he ignored it. He had chosen this course of action and he would go through with it.

He contemplated opening the door slowly, but it was better to surprise the suspect. Give him no time to do whatever he had done before to make him unable to move.

Castiel turned on the flashlight and threw the door open in one quick motion, calling out "Federal Agents!"

What he saw, though, surprised him and not the man who was standing in front of him.

It wasn't the suspect he had met before. This one was shorter, about his height, had blonde hair, brown eyes and grinned at him.

Castiel was knocked back by something – he couldn't see what it was – and landed on the room of the living room floor, where the body had lain, with a heavy thud. In the next moment, the man stood over him, still grinning.

"And they say business isn't pleasure" he said, pulling out a knife. Castiel tried to stand up, to scream, but he couldn't. A force was holding him down, just like the force who had kept him from arresting the other man. He could only watch as the knife came closer.

A strange calm came over him. He could do nothing. This must have been what the victims saw, he reflected. Really, it was his own fault. He shouldn't have gone alone.

If only he could move enough to scratch the man, leave Balthazar and the forensics some evidence...

The knife came closer and closer, the man obviously taking pleasure in seeing the fear in his eyes. Because of course he was afraid. The fear of death was human; everyone was scared of oblivion.

Castiel couldn't have closed his eyes if he had wanted to, and he wasn't sure he did. In a way, he decided, it was interesting. He knew the pain was coming, but the thought was detached, it didn't matter. It was good to have seen the killer before he died. He would be the last thing he ever saw.

Just as he registered that the knife would pierce his skin any moment, the man was thrown across the room. Apparently, it was the same thing that had caused Castiel to fall down, and he was confused – what was going on?

He could move again, he realized, as he automatically tried to stand up and found that he could. He looked for his gun, but it was in a corner; he didn't know if he could reach it in time.

The man jumped up and glowered at something behind Castiel. Only now did he register that someone else must be in the room, and he turned around to find the suspect from the other night looking at his attacker, his face clearly showing the disgust he felt.

"He sent his pet minion, didn't he?" the killer sneered and rushed forward; at the same time, Castiel was pushed towards the corner the gun lay, but he didn't feel threatened. In fact, it felt like a friendly, if forceful shove, used to get him out of the way, and he quickly grabbed his gun and stood in the corner, his back to the wall.

The two other occupants of the room didn't pay attention to him.

The green-eyed man must have stopped the blonde somehow; they were standing opposite one another, about three metres between them, both staring at the other, as if waiting for him to make a move.

Castiel wanted to raise his gun, but a look from the man who had just saved his life told him not to.

"I am kind of disappointed" the blonde began, "I thought you were this almighty – "

He stopped when the other man took a knife out of his pocket. It didn't look different from other knives, at least not in a way Castiel could spot from the distance. And yet the one who had attacked him started to tremble and back away.

"You can't – where did you – "

"I'm full of surprises" he said, advancing towards him.

The blonde looked around, then stared at him accusingly.

"No – you can't keep me from leaving, that's impossible!"

"I'm good at impossible" he answered and raised the knife.

It was then that the blonde remembered Castiel and suddenly he was being propelled towards his attacker, unable to do anything about it.

The man caught him in a headlock.

"Really?" the green-eyes suspect asked. "You do know what we are, right?"

"Yeah" he said smugly, pressing down on Castiel's windpipe. He was struggling but could feel his consciousness ebbing away.

"But I also know who you were".

"Then" he replied evenly "you should know that I know how to hit the mark."

Castiel wasn't sure what happened next, but he though the knife flew past him, missed his ear by barely an inch, and buried itself into the man's eye.

He heard a scream and saw lights dance across the walls.

The pressure on his windpipe was gone, but it didn't matter. Castiel blacked out.

When he woke up, he was lying on a bed. At first, he believed that he had dreamed the whole thing, but then he opened his eyes and found himself in a motel room, not the nice hotel he had been staying in since they had arrived in Enid.

"You're awake."

He turned his head to find the green-eyed man sitting in front of a table, a bottle of whiskey before him.

He nodded. Unsure of how to proceed, he looked around the room, but there was nothing that could tell him where he was or who had just saved him.

"Would've thought a FBI agent would be a bit more concerned about the guy he just saw stab another man to death" his saviour said, "but then, you don't look like an agent. The trench coat – you look like a tax accountant".

Castiel unconsciously grabbed a fistful of the coat he'd worn for years. The man smirked.

"Who are you?" the agent demanded, standing up. He reached for his gun, more out of habit than because he thought it would be there, and was surprised to find it where it belonged.

"I'm the one who saved your ass" he replied, and when Castiel pointed his weapon at him he sighed.

"Do you really think this is gonna work?"

His eyes turned black. Until now, Castiel had believed that he had imagined it; there was no way someone's eyes could turn black.

But this was looking at him with black eyes, smiling at his discomfort.

"Would you put that down? Not that it would hurt me, but the atmosphere would be more relaxed."

Castiel didn't realize he had let his weapon sink until he put the safety on.

"That's better". The man took a swig out of the bottle and held it out to Castiel.

He shook his head.

"More for me, then". He took another swig.

"What exactly where you doing there, anyway? What kind of FBI guy doesn't bring back up? Were you on some weird ego trip? Hoping to catch the bad guy and be a hero?"

Castiel, once he had got past the fact that the one he was talking to had black eyes, got angry. What right did this – thing have to question his abilities as an agent?

"I am one of the best" he said, enunciating every word.

"Really? Then what were you doing alone at a crime scene?"

"I was looking for you".

That seemed to surprise the – whatever Castiel was talking to. His eyes were still black, and Castiel was less scared than he should have been.

Maybe it had something to do with everything inexplicable that had happened to him.

"Looking for me? I stopped you with crazy Jedi-powers and knocked you out, and you went looking for me?"

"Of course. You are a suspect."

"I was. You met Billy. The real killer. Remember, the one I killed for you?"

Castiel only stared at him.

"Look, man, you have to think logically. I ain't the killer."

"You might not be Martin Patterns' killer" Castiel pointed out, "but you could still have killed the others".

The black-eyed man opened his mouth, then closed it again and tilted his head. Castiel had the strange impression that he was looking up, but couldn't be sure.

"Fair enough. I'm not, though."

"And I'll just take your word for it" the agent answered sarcastically.

For the first time, the man looked angry. He stood up and advanced towards him.

"You could be a little grateful, you know. I could have left you to die."

That was true. He could have killed him at George Stevens' house, or simply let him at the killer's – Billy's – mercy. He hadn't.

"Who was he?"

"Who was who?"

Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He surely should feel something other than exasperation, but he couldn't.

"Billy. The killer."

Unexpectedly, all the anger left the thing's face; it threw his head back and laughed.

"That's good. I'll have to remember that one". It wiped its eyes.

"It wouldn't do you any good to know."

"I have to – "

"Agent Novak, this is not your kind of case".

It – he – Castiel kept switching between the two because he couldn't yet comprehend that something so human-like could have black eyes – was obviously mocking the strict tone of a superior officer, but the agent was too busy wondering how it knew his name to notice. In the next moment, he realized that it had gone through his pockets, of course. He brought his hand up to his ID and found it in place.

"What kind of name is Castiel, by the way?"

He was neither ready nor interested to share the story of his name with this monster and instead asked, "Who are you?"

He hoped that the creature would not answer him with another question or mock him again, and it didn't.

It looked at him with its black eyes and said, "You can call me Dean. Dean Winchester."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: The two talk some more. **

**I would love some feedback. Please?**

"What are you, Dean Winchester?" He was surprised at how calm he was. He had just been thrown around by some unknown force, and now he was talking to a man with black eyes. Castiel had to admit that one got used to them after a while, though.

"What makes you think I am not human?" the man asked, his eyes wide, before he theatrically waved a hand and changed them back to green.

Castiel didn't answer.

"Well, aren't you just a cheerful guy to hang out with. So you really wanna know?"

He nodded.

The man looked at his bottle, and for a moment Castiel thought he saw regret flash over his face before he looked up and answered, matter-of-factly, "I am a demon".

"A demon".

Castiel stared at him. Without the eyes, he looked like a normal man, and he wondered if he hadn't got a concussion after all. Maybe he was hallucinating.

"Yes. There are demons. And before you ask, there are ghosts too, and monsters, and angels, although I've never seen one of those."

Castiel went to the table and sat down.

Angels. Monsters. What was going on?

"And Billy – "

"He was a demon too. Not in his own body, of course. He was possessing some poor bastard".

"Possessing?"

Castiel had read many books on mythology, as well as many horror novels, a fact he usually kept for himself. But he knew what possession meant.

He pushed his chair away from the table.

"You killed him".

"Better than having a demon ride him" Dean answered carelessly.

"And you – " Castiel looked at the man before him and wondered who he was. If he had a family that was looking for him.

He bit his lip as he once more felt anger beginning to rise in him.

Dean raised his hand.

"Don't go all righteous on me. I'm a special case. That's my body."

Castiel blinked and let his eyes roam over the plaid-wearing demon in front of him.

"Yours?"

"It pays off to have friends in high places. Or, in this case, low ones."

"But if you are not corporeal, you – "

Dean huffed impatiently.

"Billy just tried to kill you, you found out that the supernatural exists, and you want to discuss demons and their bodies? I think we have bigger issues at hand."

"Excuse me if I need more information to process that demons exist!" Castiel replied hotly. For some reason, the demon made him furious when he should have been scared.

Dean smirked. "I'd gladly give you all the information you need" and something about the way he said it made Castiel push his seat back even further, "But we haven't got the time. Someone is killing hunters".

"Hunters – you mean the victims? But you killed Billy, didn't you?"

Castiel realized something and he quickly stood up.

"The body – "

"Took care of it."

The agent cleared his throat.

"You killed Billy. So the killer is gone – "

"It's not that easy".

Castiel was surprised that he had thought it was.

But before the man – demon – could say anything else, he decided to take control. He was working the case, and Dean had just killed a suspect and claimed it wasn't over.

"What is going on?"

He pronounced it clearly, like he always talked to suspects in the interrogation.

Dean wasn't impressed. If anything, he looked slightly amused. But he answered.

"Someone is killing hunters."

"I gathered that. What do you mean, hunters? George Stevens didn't work. The McCalls were a writer and a journalist. Martin Patterns was – "

Dean shook his head.

"The McCalls did some freelancing on the side, and Patterns always did it more as a hobby than anything else". Was it Castiel's imagination or was there contempt in his voice when he spoke about Patterns?

"But they were all hunters. You admit that I am a demon?"

It was a strange question, but a justified one. He hadn't changed his eyes back to black, and despite everything that had happened in the last few house, Castiel found it difficult to believe that demons existed.

He had hesitated too long. Dean's eyes became black again and he found himself unable to move.

Dean chuckled, and then, as if sensing his fear, let the black fade once more while releasing him.

"Don't look like that. I was just having a little fun. So, me demon. Right?"

"Right" he replied slowly.

"And, as before stated, there are ghosts and monsters. So we have all these supernatural creatures running around, and humans who fight them."

"And they are called hunters" he guessed. Dean nodded.

"And someone has been killing them" Castiel continued. "So I am assuming the books and the weapons and the pentagrams – "

"Sigils. Meant to protect them. They can be broken, though, and obviously that happened. Salt burns demons and ghosts too, so that's why there was rock salt in the bullets and salt on the windowsills. Same goes for silver".

"And the water?" he asked.

"Holy water. Blessed by a rosary."

Castiel shook his head. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. A few hours ago, he had been trying to catch a serial killer – certainly not normal, but understandable. Serial killers were real.

Demons weren't. Neither were ghosts or monsters or –

"Hey".

Dean's voice had assumed a threatening tone that caused Castiel to stand up. He wouldn't be attacked sitting down.

Dean had jumped up too, and there was something feral in his expression. His black eyes stared straight into Castiel's.

They stood there, simply looking at each other, and Castiel was ready to defend himself. Dean hardly seemed the same person he had spoken too only a minute before. It seemed much more probable that there were monsters in this world, if a man could look at him like this; like he was ready to rip him into pieces.

Instead of launching towards him, Dean simply snarled, "I just saved your ass. How about you stop doubting me?"

"You should be aware that most people wouldn't consider demons trustworthy" Castiel answered calmly. "And you could just have left me there".

It was clear that these demons weren't exactly like the ones the bible described; but still, he doubted they made a habit of rescuing federal agents who were investigating a case.

The whole fight seemed to go out of Dean. He looked embarrassed, and Castiel stared. Had he really just caused a demon to reach for his bottle and take a deep pull to compose himself?

"You're working the case" he grumbled. "Might as well see what you've got".

"So you're working the case too?"

"Why else would I be there?"

"Except for being the killer?"

"Touché. But I'm not. Billy, remember".

"You said yourself that it wasn't over" Castiel pointed out and Dean sighed.

"You must be good at this. Only pains-in-the-ass are good at this kind of job".

"So that is why you are investigating" Castiel deadpanned.

Dean laughed – an actual cheerful laugh that surprised him. "You do have a sense of humour. Who would've thought".

"Why are you investigating?" Castiel wasn't about to allow this demon to lead this conversation.

"Because I want to find out who kills them" Dean said matter-of-factly, "to be more precise, who's behind it".

"Demons – "

He rolled his black eyes.

"They don't just go around killing people."

"They don't?"

"Well, okay, most do, but these are targeting hunters – "

"Who are hunting them".

"I am trying to explain here, could you shut your cakehole for one minute?"

Castiel closed his mouth and tried not to look offended. It was stupid anyway. Why should he feel offended by something a demon said? If anything, he should be glad that Dean had happened to show up when he did.

"As I was busy explaining, they didn't just gut these hunters because they felt like it. Don't get me wrong, they certainly felt like it, but they were told to kill them."

"By whom?" Castiel prompted when he didn't continue.

"That's what I'm trying to find out".

"You don't know?" Castiel asked, incredulous. If what Dean said was true, and Billy had been the killer – one of them – then he had killed their best lead.

"You don't know and you stabbed the one who could tell you to death?"

"Should I've allowed him to kill you? In case you didn't notice, he wasn't exactly human-friendly".

His indignation had a profound if confusing effect. Except for the black eyes, he looked and sounded just as human as anyone Castiel knew, and more than some.

"No, no he wasn't." Another second passed before he added, "Thank you".

He had until now failed to thank him, and it took Dean aback. He cleared his throat, and his eyes changed to green once more.

"Don't mention it. Billy's gone, so we have to find someone else."

"Was he responsible for all the murders?"

"Yes." Dean thought for a moment. "He liked to brag. It was just about finding him and getting him to talk".

Which he couldn't know and suddenly Castiel felt guilty. Utterly irrational, of course, but he couldn't help it.

"That reminds me" Dean said, "they didn't open the boxes in George Stevens' house, did they? Or anything else suspicious that they stumbled upon anywhere?"

Castiel told him that some of them wouldn't open, no matter what they tried. Dean smiled.

"Why?" the agent asked.

"Powerful curses could be unleashed" Dean replied lightly before he looked down at the table and started mumbling to himself.

It took Castiel a few moments to realize he was talking about the case, obviously thinking things through. He used the time to look at his watch.

It was after nine am.

"How long – "

He took out his phone. Twelve missed calls and thirteen messages, all of them from Balthazar.

"Did you turn my phone on silent?"

"It kept ringing" Dean said simply. "It was annoying."

Balthazar probably was looking for him all over town. Castiel put his phone back in his pocket.

"I have to go."

Dean frowned.

"Why?"

"Because I have to do my job".

It brought him another eye-roll from the demon.

"You found out who's killing them – well, was – and now you're discussing the case. In case you haven't noticed, you are doing your job".

"That's not the way it's done."

Dean stared at him.

"What do you mean, "Not the way it's done"?"

Castiel huffed. "There are procedures, forms that must be filled, protocols that must be followed – "

"So you are telling me you always do these things? Even if there's a killer out there?"

"Especially if there's a killer out there" Castiel answered indignantly. "The Bureau can't afford to let him loose again because someone didn't follow procedure."

Dean looked like he wanted to say something sarcastic, but then he seemed to think of something and instead smiled smugly.

"And coming to a crime scene in the middle of the night, alone? That was correct procedure?"

Castiel blushed against his will. It hadn't been. For the first time since he had worked for the Bureau, he had done something stupid, something that went against every rule he had ever been taught, and it had led him to be saved by a demon.

"It was a mistake on my part" he admitted.

"You think?"

Castiel sighed. This was going nowhere.

"What are your plans?" he asked.

"Find out who's behind the killings" the demon said, clearly only to annoy him.

"I know. But how?"

"Since our only informant is gone, I'll have to find something else."

Obviously, he didn't know what kind of something he was looking for, but Castiel didn't point it out.

If Dean found something, it might be possible that they –

They? Was he thinking about working with the demon? He had saved his life, but he _was_ a demon.

"I really should go" he said, surprised at his own reluctance.

A thought occurred to him and he couldn't believe that it hadn't crossed his mind before. While he was not prone to profanity, he almost cursed before he continued, "Unless – "

Dean stared at him with green eyes, something like disappointment on his face. It made Castiel look away.

"Do you really think I'd save you and then kidnap you? Why would I do that?"

"How should I know? You're the demon. Apparently you "feel like killing people", if I remember correctly" Castiel challenged him, using the air quotes Balthazar had often mocked him about. "I can't say what you would want with me."

Dean jumped up so abruptly that the chair fell down.

His eyes changed to black, and he clenched his fists, having let go of the bottle.

With a few strides, he was in front of the agent, and within the next second, he had backed him against the wall.

Castiel stared up into the dark pits that were his eyes and forced himself not to flinch. Stupid. He had been stupid. This was a demon; had he really expected him to behave like a human? To be friendly? Had he really just discussed the case with him?

"Don't compare to those sons of bitches" Dean growled. "I am _nothing_ like them. I'm – "

He didn't continue. He stopped, and an emotion Castiel couldn't identify crossed his face. He shook his head and took a few steps back, looking at him.

He turned around and walked to the table, taking the bottle.

"Your time is precious. Don't wanna keep you" he said sarcastically, and Castiel quickly went to the door. He didn't know where he was, but he didn't want to ask the demon.

The demon who hadn't harmed him when he had the chance. The demon who had saved him. The demon who had been angry because he had assumed he was just like the others.

Castiel stopped in front of the door. Again, there was this strange reluctance to leave.

He opened the door. He had no reason to stay. If what Dean said was true, he could do nothing. The demons had powers he couldn't fight against. If Dean was lying, and it was possible, he had to find the murderer.

He turned around before leaving.

"Thank you."

"You already said that" was the gruff response.

"I know, I –" Castiel swallowed. Why was he still here?

He should be out the door. He should call Balthazar.

"I wanted you to know that I meant it" he said firmly. "Thank you".

Dean, who had been sitting with his back to the door, turned around. As his eyes roamed over Castiel's face, the darkness disappeared and left behind their normal colour.

He nodded.

Castiel's eyes lingered on the demon longer than necessary. When he realized he was staring, he turned around quickly and, calling out a short goodbye, to which Dean didn't react, he all but ran from the room.

He found himself in a motel, and made his way to the reception. The receptionist was staring at him in a way that told him it wouldn't be wise to ask her for directions.

He pulled out his phone as soon as he was in the parking lot and googled the street name he could read on a dirty sight on the other side of the road.

He wasn't far away from the PD, and he decided to walk. He needed to clear his head.

It was promising to be a hotter day than any other they had had yet, and even Castiel began to sweat in his trench coat.

The more the distance between him and the motel grew, the more unbelievable everything seemed. Had he really talked to a demon? Demons didn't exist. It hadn't been a demon that had killed this people; it had been a man.

And it just might have been Dean.

What if the whole thing had been a hoax? He didn't even know for sure that Billy was dead. He had lost consciousness as soon as he had let go.

There had to be an explanation why Dean's eyes had turned green and black and green again. Surely, there was something that could produce this effect.

The close Castiel got to the PD, the surer he was that he was an idiot.

The supernatural? Demons? Monsters? Hunters?

He didn't even know why he had believed Dean. And yet he had. He had listened to the green-eyed man, had trusted him as his deep voice told him all about –

Castiel shook himself. He would talk to Balthazar; the police would put a BOLO out on Dean. He would have to talk to Henricksen, too. After what he had done, he wouldn't be surprised if his boss told him he was off the case. He'd deserve it.

He hadn't considered what he looked like, but the looks that were shot his way when he entered the station told him enough. He quickly ducked into the toilet and washed his hands and face before searching for Balthazar.

He was in the small room they had been assigned, talking to someone on the phone.

"He wouldn't. I know he hasn't been himself, but – "

The agent brazed himself for the questions that were sure to come and entere.d

Balthazar saw Castiel and his eyes widened.

"He's here. He's fine. Thanks, Thomas".

He'd been talking to Thomas Ceens, the Bureau's best IT man, Castiel realized.

Balthazar hung up and stared at him.

"I don't want to sound like your wife, but. Where. Have. You. Been?"

Castiel opened his mouth. He was going to tell him; about his nightly excursion, the strange man he had met, the story Dean had told him.

He didn't.

He closed his mouth again and shrugged his shoulders.

Balthazar walked up to him and put his hand on his forehead. Castiel resisted the instinct to shove him away.

His friend let his hand drop from his forehead only to grasp his forearms.

"What were you thinking?" he hissed. "You can't just go and do something like this. I managed to keep them in the dark for now, didn't even call Henricksen. But if you had –"

"I know. I'm sorry".

Balthazar's hands left him and he sighed.

"What is going on?"

He mustered Castiel.

"You've always been so dependable. What is happening?"

Castiel _had_ always been dependable, and he had always taken pride in it. He followed the rules. But now, after his talk with Dean, he didn't know if he wanted to be dependable.

And that was crazy in itself, because the one time he had gone against the rules, he had almost got himself killed.

"I don't know" he answered. "I don't know".

The words came out flat, and he winced at the obvious lie. Because while he didn't know exactly what was going on, he had an idea, and Balthazar knew it too.

His friend sat down, breathing heavily.

"Castiel" he said firmly. "This can't go on. I should call Henricksen, tell him to pull you off the case – "

"No". He was surprised at the pleading tone in his voice, and so was Balthazar. Castiel rarely asked for anything, if it wasn't help during an investigation.

He didn't have any right to ask Balthazar not to report to their boss. He had been gone for hours, and he had lied to him. He was fairly certain that his colleague was aware he had lied to him and hadn't called him out on it. He deserved honesty. He deserved that Castiel told him that he was in fact at the end of his wits, that he should take himself off the case, that Balthazar should work with someone else, someone who hadn't seen demons and didn't feel like this case was more important than anything else.

Castiel swallowed and continued to plead.

"Please, Balthazar. It's important that I stay on the case. I can't tell you why – it just – it is" he said, feeling how inadequate this was. Balthazar had only called Thomas, most likely to track his phone, when he could have told the police and contacted Henricksen, and he couldn't even give him an explanation.

His friend looked up. Their eyes met.

Balthazar brought his hands up to his face and massaged his temples.

"If I say no and you return to Quantico, you're still going to work this case, aren't you?" he asked softly, and Castiel, unable to lie anymore, nodded when Balthazar raised his head.

"Fine. I won't say anything. But – if you're in over your head, or if you run into any trouble, you tell me."

"I will" Castiel promised, and his heart sank when he realized that he had already run into trouble. And he already knew that he wouldn't tell him anything about Dean. No matter what happened.

Balthazar sighed again.

"Just – stay out of trouble." A few moments passed, then he stood up and smiled. "Who would have thought I'd ever say that to you, Cassie?"

He knew that the moment in which Balthazar demanded explanations had passed as soon as he used his nickname, and he smiled back.

Balthazar wouldn't allow him to stay, telling him that he needed rest, and Castiel didn't argue. He really could do with a few hours of sleep, he thought distractedly – distractedly because he didn't feel tired – and he could do some research. Thankfully, he'd brought his laptop with him.

He immediately logged into the Bureau's database, barely taking the time to lay his trench coat on the chair next to the door.

If there was a Dean Winchester, he had to be born at some point. There had to be some kind of document.

It was only after he'd put in the name that he realized how stupid he was. If Dean was a demon – and how strange it seemed, with the sun shining through the windows and the files, the facts of the case lying on the bed next to him – he would hardly be in the system.

Nonetheless, he looked through the results.

At first, he had looked for any Dean Winchester in the US country records – there were eighteen, but most of them were too old or deceased.

But there was one who was born in 1979. It fit the impression Castiel had had – that the demon he had met couldn't be older than his mid-thirties.

He knew, of course, that it didn't have to mean anything. The demon might simply have assumed the name of the man, or he might be possessing him. Dean had told him that it was his own body, but he had no proof of that.

Still, he looked up all the information he could find.

Dean Winchester, born on January 24, 1979. Parents John Winchester and Mary Winchester. He had lived in Lawrence, Kansas, until he was four. There was a younger brother, Sam. Their mother had died then, from a fire, according to the death certificate, and –

Nothing. His father had packed him up and left. There was nothing else. No address, no documents.

Dean Winchester had disappeared of the face of the earth when he was four years old. Gone and uncared for, until a demon had told Castiel it was his name.

But why would a demon have a human birth certificate? It could only be a coincidence.

Sam Winchester, his brother, had likewise disappeared after the death of his mother. After a period of four years that he'd spent at college, he had fallen off the grid completely.

He couldn't ask his brother then, either.

Castiel sighed and leaned back on the bed, his eyes once more travelling over everything he had found –

It hit him, and he had no idea how he had overlooked it.

Dean Winchester. Born on January 24, 1979 in Lawrence, Kansas.

Lawrence, Kansas.

Where it all began.

It made Dean a more likely suspect, and Castiel was surprised that he felt disappointed. He shoved the feeling aside. It was a lead.

Someone who had been at the crime scene had been born in Lawrence, Kansas.

And Castiel knew someone who had lived there all her life and had given him hints from the moment they met.

He closed the laptop.

He knew where he was going next.

**Author's note: I always thought that Dean as a demon would still keep some of his human qualities, but be dangerous in the way that he could snap any minute. **

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Did you guess where Castiel was headed? **

**I don't own anything. **

He stood once more in front of Missouri Moseley's door without really being able to name any reason for it. She had been born in this town, and she lived here still, but that didn't mean that she knew anything about Dean Winchester.

But she was the only lead he had. The brother had disappeared of the face of the earth the same time as Dean and their father. And he remembered his and Missouri's last talk very well.

_You are not ready. You wouldn't believe me if I told you._

_Then why are you telling me that there is something I should know?_

_Because you will be. Eventually. And you will have to look past everything._

What if it had something to do with Dean? What if she knew something?

On the other hand –

What if she didn't? What if Castiel was grasping at straws, desperate to make sense of what he had seen? What if he hadn't seen anything at all, but had been the victim of an elaborate hoax? What if he couldn't trust his own eyes and ears anymore?

Balthazar hadn't made it a secret that he saw no point in Castiel driving back to Lawrence to interview a witness he had already talked to.

"Are you sure?" he asked after Castiel told him, and he was carefully choosing his words, the agent could tell. In all the time they had known each other, he had never done that.

"Yes" he answered.

He left shortly afterwards.

And now here he was. He had driven for over three hours, and he still didn't know what to say. Everything he came up with sounded silly even in his head.

He realized that he wouldn't find the right words, no matter how long he thought about them, and knocked.

Missouri opened almost immediately, and she didn't seem surprised to see him there.

If anything, she looked scared, but he wouldn't remember this impression until later. The words tumbled from his lips the moment he saw her.

"Do you know anything about Dean Winchester?"

This time, he wasn't too preoccupied with what he was going to say to see that what crossed her face was pain. No surprise, no guilt, simply pain.

"The boy – " she began, then stopped herself.

"You better come in".

He followed her, unsure of how he had chosen the right words, or if he had chosen them at all.

She didn't turn around as she walked into her living room. He had only been in the kitchen before. The living room had a homely feel to it, and he felt immediately comfortable.

Until she returned around and he saw the sickly paleness of her cheek.

He moved forward to help her, but she shook her head.

"Sit".

He decided it was better to obey than to make her angry.

"I didn't – " she broke off and looked out of the window. "I was hoping they were wrong. I wasn't sure. I was hoping – "

She closed her mouth and glared at Castiel.

"Why are you here?"

"Because you told me I wasn't ready to hear what you had to say, but I would be eventually" he said simply. "Because I met Dean Winchester and am certain you know something about him. About this whole case".

Her eyes softened and she turned around and left the room without another word. Castiel was wondering if he was supposed to follow her when she returned with a file in her hand.

"Here" she said, her voice trembling slightly, "look".

The file only contained two pictures. In the first, there was a family; two parents who looked young and happy and a boy about four years old who held a baby and grinned proudly at the camera.

"That's the Winchesters" Missouri explained softly. "Before the fire."

"When Mary Winchester died?" Castiel asked, and she nodded.

"I met them a few years ago – the boys. All grown up. Rather handsome, if a bit cocky". A smile passed over her face before she grew serious again. "Look at the next picture".

He did.

He swallowed. He would have recognized that face everywhere.

"That is Dean Winchester".

Missouri sat down beside him on the sofa.

"Yes. He was the older brother. Always looking out for Sam" she pointed at the other man on the picture. He was taller than Dean, and Castiel couldn't help but think that he looked like he could take care of himself.

"And then – "

She didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she asked with the voice of someone who knew it was hopeless to ask, but had to make sure, "You saw Dean?"

"Yes" he confirmed.

"He's a demon?"

"Yes" he said, and sounded surer than he would have thought he was.

"It's true then" she said calmly, but he saw the pity and grief in her eyes.

"What?" he asked. "Help me understand" he added after a moment.

"He was a man" she began, looking at but not seeing a picture on her wall. "A hero, some would say. I know he never saw himself as such. He decided to – " she came to a decision and shook her head. "It's not my story to tell".

"I – " Castiel started to protest, but she shook her head again.

"You just have to know one thing: He became a demon for the best reason."

"Became?"

"I told you he was a man. I'm not at liberty to tell you more. They have been right so far; I have to trust them".

"Who?"

"My sources".

Castiel was confused. "You have sources?"

She nodded.

"I'm a psychic."

A few days ago, Castiel would have thanked her and left, asking himself why people continued to claim that something like mediums existed.

"So you can see the future?"

"Some of it. And it's not clear. The future never is".

"But when you told me – "

"It's complicated" she said. It was clear that she wouldn't tell him more.

He stood up and thanked her.

Quicker than he would have thought her capable of, she jumped up and grabbed his sleeve.

"Remember" she said. "Look past everything".

He could only nod.

"And" she added, "the collection of our library is interesting".

With that, she let go and he left.

He didn't know why he went to the library. She had told him barely anything. Dean Winchester had been human at some point – if the demon was indeed who he said he was. He might be lying. Missouri didn't seem to think so, but why should Castiel believe the demon? It had saved his life. That didn't mean it had been honest.

Plus, it had told him there was at least one more killer out there, and that was one thing Castiel was ready to believe. So it was only logical to consider it a suspect.

Nonetheless, he made his way into the library. He knew what Missouri had meant when he found a section labelled "Occultism". He had never seen one of those in a library before, but there was more to Lawrence, Kansas, than met the eye.

There were several books about demons, and he browsed through a few of them. After a while, he picked several, among them, feeling a bit silly, an old-looking volume that declared itself to be a real Grimoire, and carried them to the hotel.

What he read wasn't reassuring, but it confused him.

Demons were creatures of Hell, incapable of mercy. _But why had Dean saved him?_

They made deals with people and helped them in exchange for their souls. _Dean had helped him without a deal._

They possessed people because they had no bodies and needed them to walk around. _Dean had said it was his body. Why would he lie? There was no need to. _

The more he read, the less sense it made. Naturally, Dean possessed some qualities that were attributed to demons – he had been rude at some point, and Castiel was certain he could rip him apart if he wanted to – but he was working on the case, at least that was what he'd told him, and he had saved Castiel. He needed more information. He needed to speak to Dean.

Once he had decided that, he quickly went through the other books.

He didn't expect to find anything in the old, cheap-looking Grimoire but, amongst other things, there was a chapter about summoning.

Summoning a demon.

The thought hadn't even crossed his mind until now. Before he had known that demons existed, he had now and then read about them, like one would read fairy tales, entertaining but not to be taken seriously; this ritual read different than others he had previously encountered, however. In legends, one had to be at the right place at the right time.

According to the book –

He would have to cut himself; he would have to mix herbs.

And, of course, he would have to paint a devil's trap to make sure the demon didn't leave once he had summoned him.

It was ridiculous. Crazy. Insane. Balthazar should have taken him off the case. He should take himself off the case.

Only when he left the hotel with the book under his arm did he realize that he was going to do it – he was going to summon a demon.

It might disprove it, he consoled himself. No, not might; would. Nothing would happen and he would admit to himself that he had believed a crazy man who had told him about demons, he would confess to Balthazar what had happened and they would focus on tracking down the suspect.

He would have thought that it would take more exotic herbs to summon a demon, but the supermarket had everything he needed. The cashier mustered him suspiciously, and he couldn't blame her. He had barely slept, even though he had withdrawn to his room and went to bed at Balthazar's insistence last night, his hair looked as uncombed as ever, and his tie was once more not tied properly.

And naturally he was still wearing his trench coat. Although any warmth he might have taken from it and the weather had dissipated. He was feeling cold from the pure thought of what he was about to do. He was scared of what it would prove – that he was losing his sanity. And yet he had to prove it.

Halfway back to the hotel he realized that he couldn't do the ritual in his room. He wouldn't paint a symbol on the floor. But there was nowhere else he could be sure to remain undisturbed – aside from –

Aside from George Stevens' house. He shouldn't even think about it. The man had died in this house. He would compromise a crime scene, no matter that the forensics had already gone through it.

He thought the painting under the carpet in the living room had looked like a devil's trap. He could make sure it was unbroken, and then –

The body had laid there. No. The dead deserved more respect than that.

It would have to be George Stevens' house, but he decided to go to the bedroom, and he would use paint he could wash away afterwards. It wasn't the safest option, but it felt right. He wouldn't try to put the possible killer in the exact same spot where the victim had been found.

He realized that hours had passed since he had left Missouri and Balthazar hadn't called. His friend was obviously giving him space, and he didn't know if he should ashamed or thankful because of it.

He quickly went to George Stevens' house and unlocked the door with the key he still carried. He didn't look into the living room or the office, but stole up the stairs like a thief.

By the time he had painted the devil's trap on the floor, like it was drawn in the book, with some paint he'd bought at a hardware store a few streets down, he was feeling more stupid than he ever had in his life.

Still, he would try. And then he would know.

Being crazy was better than knowing that there were demons hurting people in the world.

He couldn't help feeling silly as he cut his arm to let his blood mix with the herbs and began chanting in Latin. How had he gotten to this point? Maybe Missouri hadn't meant to tell him to summon a demon; maybe she had meant there was another clue in the library, an actual clue...

He might as well finish now that he had started, though.

He lit a match and set the mix ablaze.

He was so focused on pronouncing the rest of the text correctly that he didn't notice until he heard the voice.

"Son of a bitch!"

He looked up to find Dean Winchester in the devil's trap, eyes black, looking angry.

"Really? You summoned me? I'd have thought you'd have enough of demons."

Castiel didn't know what to say.

"So, what now? Or did you call me to give me the silent treatment? Not exactly what I expected for saving your fucking life."

He swallowed. He hadn't really believed it would work, had thought that he would have to face the fact that he was insane.

He had no idea how to face a demon.

Technically he had already faced him, of course. But knowing what he was, realizing that he had indeed just summoned a demon –

He shook himself. He had question, and the thing that was calling itself Dean Winchester wasn't going anywhere.

It was also obviously growing impatient.

"So what? You trap me and don't have anything to say? At least get me pie or a beer – "

"Who are you?"

It rolled its eyes and all but snarled, "Dean Winchester."

"That's what you told me. Dean Winchester was human."

"_Was_ being the key word, genius."

He took a deep breath.

"I talked to Missouri Moseley".

He didn't know what he had expected. Maybe a sarcastic comeback. But it surely hadn't been the demon growing completely still.

He stopped talking and moving. His eyes turned back to green, and Castiel wasn't sure if he was even breathing. He was obviously shocked, and he looked once more so human that he felt like he could leave the devil's trap any moment.

Then the eyes turned black again and he cleared his throat.

"Witness of yours?"

"She knew George Stevens".

"Figures". Dean – and he noticed more and more how he kept confusing "demon" and "human" and "it" and "he" when it came to this... person – looked down on the floor. "And?"

"She showed me a picture. Two pictures, in fact".

He hoped that the – that Dean, even with his black eyes, he looked so vulnerable at the moment that it was difficult to think him anything different than a man – would be cooperative. He had to know.

"And?"

"One was of your family".

He could have said "Dean Winchester's family" – the words lay on his tongue – but he felt that he wouldn't get anything out of him if he did.

"You have no right to talk about my family".

He sounded vicious, and Castiel couldn't help the impression that he would have attacked him if the devil's trap hadn't held him back.

"The other one was of you and your brother – "

"Don't you _dare_ talk about Sammy – "

Sammy. Sam Winchester. The one who had shown up at university and left before he got accepted into Stanford, never to be seen again.

"Why not? Did you do something to him?" The question was out of his mouth before he could consider what he would say, and he winced. Dean was surely going to get even angrier –

He didn't. If anything, he looked confused and sad.

"Why – I – " He stopped and composed himself, straightening his spine, demon once again.

"What do you want? So Missouri showed you pictures."

"She's fond of you" Castiel said softly because it was true. Behind the words, behind the story she hadn't told there had been sorrow, and a wish for things to be different. Dean Winchester had meant something to Missouri Moseley.

Dean snorted. "She barely tolerated me. When I didn't put my foot on her coffee table. By the way – never do that."

"I'll try to remember that" he answered sarcastically before continuing, "Since she showed me the pictures, I have to assume you were human at some point".

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yes".

"Why aren't you anymore?"

"How do you think people turn into demons?"

"I wouldn't know" Castiel shot back, as aggravated as the last time he had talked to Dean, "I didn't know demons existed until now".

"How do you think?" Dean was clenching and unclenching his fists; it appeared to be an unconscious reaction to Castiel's question, and the agent was silent as he waited for him to continue.

"You know, there is this place called Hell. And when humans go down there – "

"You went to Hell?"

Castiel couldn't say why it shocked him. Maybe because Dean had saved him, even as a demon, and he couldn't imagine that he had been worse as a human than he was now.

"It's a long story" Dean said. "And one I ain't telling".

He wouldn't say anymore on the subject, Castiel knew. He recognized the tone.

It was the one he used on the rare occasions someone asked about Gabriel.

"And this is your body? You are Dean Winchester?"

Castiel held up the book he'd found the summoning ritual in. He had read a particular passage so often in the last few hours that he had it committed to memory.

_To walk among men, they have to take over their bodies. They have to break their spirits, keep them subdued. A human can save himself from demonic possession, although it is difficult, and sigils will keep out demons. If a demon possession has taken place, the demon has to be exorcised._

"This says that – "

"Like I said, I'm a special case".

"But if you went to Hell, you had to die first" Castiel argued. "I assume it takes some time for a human to turn into a demon – "

"Four hundred years" Dean interrupted, and it strangely looked like his eyes became even darker.

"So shouldn't your body be – wait, four hundred years? Why did Missouri have a picture of you then?"

Castiel was confused. If Dean had died four hundred years ago –

"Different time in Hell than on Earth. I spent three years and four months in hell, from your point of view".

Dean was remarkable open with him, if he disregarded his reluctance to talk about his brother, which he could understand all too well.

"Shouldn't your body be – " he was searching for a tactful expression for "decomposed" when Dean interrupted, "rotting and smelling? Yeah. I've got friends in low places – remember? It's not that easy to restore bodies, but it worked. And now I'm my usual handsome self".

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Dean was the one to break the silence.

"Now that your questions are answered, would you let me loose? Things I have to do".

"Like what? Investigate the case?"

"Obviously".

"It's my case" Castiel replied, and he tried not to think about how this made him sound like a stubborn child.

Dean chuckled.

"You know who committed the murders. Nothing you can do. So I advise you put your sweet ass on a plane and get back to Quantico".

"More people are going to get hurt" Castiel said.

"We'll get all of them, eventually."

"But more people are going to get hurt" he insisted.

"And why should I care?"

"You cared about me" the agent said quietly. He knew it was true. Dean could have left him lying there on the floor of apartment after he had saved his life, but he took him to a motel room and laid him down on the bed.

"I – didn't. Just thought you lying around would lead to awkward questions."

"About demons?"

Dean definitely looked embarrassed now.

"You said you were human once" Castiel began, "and you remember what it's like. You have to. You don't want humans to get hurt."

Eventually, Dean mumbled "So what?" and the agent continued, "I will work on this case. I will search out the demon who did this."

Dean's eyes widened.

"Are you nuts? Why am I even asking? You summoned a demon".

"Therefore you know I won't give up."

"Why?" Dean asked hotly.

"What do you mean, "why"?"

"Most people would run. You have seen a little of what demons can do. Neither Billy nor me are the strongest around. Imagine what some of the others could do – "

"It doesn't matter. It's my job to solve this case".

"You have to be alive to do it."

Dean sighed and shook his head. "Look, you let me out and I get out of your hair and you find yourself a case you can solve. How about that?"

"It's not going to happen" Castiel insisted.

And then, for the first time, he had the feeling that Dean looked at him.

Or, rather, that he _saw_ him.

He had looked at him before, of course, had even seen him unconscious, but he had never considered him an equal, someone worth as a partner. Now, he changed his eyes to green and mustered him up and down. Castiel told himself not to flinch.

Dean frowned. "I think I underestimated you. Take that as a compliment – I don't say that lightly. Doesn't matter, though. It's not your case."

"I'm not going to let you out until you promise me that we'll work this case together".

Dean shot him a look of contempt.

"How old are we? Nine?"

"Promise".

Castiel knew that he had no right to demand anything from the demon. Everything he had read told him that demons were not to be trusted, and even if he hadn't looked for information, he would have owed the demon and not the other way around.

And yet he was demanding a promise from him.

Dean looked angry for a moment before he took a deep breath and said, "Okay. Deal".

He was looking into Castiel's eyes, and again the agent found it easy to forget that he was a demon. As long as his eyes stayed green, it was hard to remember that this was a creature from Hell.

Castile shook himself and remembered what he had read.

"A deal? Like – "

"It's just an expression, Cas, come on" Dean huffed impatiently. "What would I do with your soul?"

"Since you told me – wait, Cas?"

He didn't know why he was surprised. Although, thinking about it – he had never had a nickname, if one didn't count "Cassie". "Cas" sounded much better, even though he had no idea why the demon would decide to call him that.

"Can't call you by an angel's full name. Too blasphemous. See, I did my homework." The demon grinned, his eyes black once more. "Number?"

"Sorry?" Castiel blinked.

"Your phone number. No reason to show up and freak you out every time I want something. Better to call first".

Castiel nodded dumbly and took out his phone. After they had both programmed each other's number in the respective devices, Dean asked, "So, you're going to let me out or – "

Castiel, still surprised at how well things had turned out, but thankful, quickly scratched of some of the paint.

In the next moment, the demon had pinned him to a wall, a hand around his neck. Castiel forced himself to breathe calmly.

"First lesson" Dean growled in his ear. "Never trust a demon".

He let go and took a step back. When he reached out again, Castiel flinched, but he merely straightened his tie. The agent pretended that he didn't feel his warm fingers, so human, at his throat.

"Can't let you walk around like this since we're working together".

He smiled and winked at Castiel as he cheerfully said, "See ya, Cas". Then he disappeared.

Castiel was left alone with a floor to clean and the feeling that he wasn't at all sure what he had just made the demon agree to.

**Author's note: I decided to have Cas summoning Dean because I thought he would be looking for answers, and that he was more than capable of doing it. Writing their interaction was fun.**

**Please review. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: The next chapter. Hope you enjoy. **

He found himself strangely relieved, even after two hours of cleaning, as he drove back to Enid. The conversation with Dean Winchester had given him the certainty that he wasn't crazy and something to do. He didn't doubt that he would call. He should have, but he didn't.

The drive passed quickly as he went over their discussion again. A demon was killing the people, the hunters – they didn't appear to have any acquaintances in common, but that didn't mean that no one knew about hunters. Someone had to know who they were and where they lived. He would call Dean and ask him. He had to possess information about them he had not yet shared.

If he didn't pick up, he could always someone him again, and Castiel told himself that the picture of Dean in the devil's trap, frustrated, didn't make him smile. He was still a demon, a demon who had saved his life, but a demon nonetheless.

And yet he felt lighter. Maybe it truly was the relief that he wasn't losing his mind. Or that he had a theory –

His heart sank.

The case. Balthazar.

How could he tell him what he knew? His friend would have him taken off the case.

He could have summoned Dean, proved to him that demons existed. But of what use would it be? He would only put his friend in danger. If these demons were capable of what he had seen in the victims' houses, they were capable of everything.

In the end, he decided that he wouldn't tell him anything for now. He could always do so at a later date.

"You look happy" Balthazar commented immediately when he entered their office, and Castiel felt himself blush. He had tried to behave as if nothing had changed, and of course hadn't succeeded.

Although he wouldn't agree that he felt "happy". Satisfied, content, anticipation at what was to come – but happy? He had just talked to a demon and they had decided to work a case together. This hardly warranted the description.

He shrugged.

"I talked to Missouri Moseley" he said.

"Again? I don't know what you have with this woman."

"You are intimidated by her. This doesn't mean I have to be".

"I am not intimidated by her" Balthazar insisted, although he looked back down on the file as he spoke, and Castiel smiled a small smile that went unseen by his friend.

"But, since you didn't find anything, or you would have told me immediately, let's come to the interesting part" he continued, raising his head. Castiel recognized the expression in his face as one that always either preceding teasing him or annoying him otherwise, and he sighed.

"Don't be like that. You were so full of joy just a moment ago. So who is it, Cassie?"

Castiel looked at him.

"Who is what?" he asked, confused.

"Come on" his fried replied smugly. "You forget how well I know you. I'm wounded, really".

"I don't know what you mean" Castiel answered, starting to feel annoyed.

Balthazar shot him a reproachful look. "I have known you for ten years. In all this time, you have never managed to fix your tie. Now you stroll in, the knot tied perfectly. Someone did it for you. So, who was it? The cute, smart forensic girl?"

"Rachel?" Castiel asked and blushed once more, although for a different reason than Balthazar thought. It was true that he didn't date much, and that no one had ever fixed his tie or cared enough how he looked like to do so since he started wearing them in the academy.

But Balthazar was obviously interpreting it as showing their intentions, and this wasn't true.

"It wasn't Rachel".

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he realized how much more practical a lie would have been when Balthazar straightened up.

"No?" There was something predatory in his voice. "Who was it, then?"

"How do you know it wasn't Missouri?" Castiel shot back. "Not everything has to be about..." he trailed off.

Balthazar laughed. "Oh Cassie, Cassie, you are so wonderfully old-fashioned".

He grew serious when he saw Castiel's expression.

"I was just kidding."

Castiel thought that the topic was dealt with, but Balthazar added, "It could be good for you, you know. I'm not saying – just think about it".

He didn't answer and thankfully, Balthazar concentrated on the files once more, leaving him to wonder how people could easily jump to conclusions from a fixed tie.

When his colleague threw a file over the table and angrily remarked that they had got nothing, he felt guilty for not telling him. But it was for the best, at least as long as he wasn't sure what exactly was going on. Right now, he only knew that demons killed people and that Dean thought something bigger was behind all of it.

He would call Dean as soon as he arrived in his hotel room tonight, he decided. He tried to fight down the anticipation he was feeling, not only because Balthazar would be able to see it, but also because he shouldn't feel this way during a murder investigation, especially not such a gruesome one.

"You should call Henricksen" Balthazar remarked casually as they went over the evidence once again.

"He is wondering why I am the one giving him reports".

Castiel realized that their boss was concerned about him. He had never been a cause of unease for Henricksen before, and he decided to call him immediately so he wouldn't be called back.

He sounded angry and yet pleased that Castiel had called.

"Do you have anything at all?"

A demon, Castiel thought. A demon who was chasing after other demons so he could find the one who was behind all of this, a demon who had sometimes green eyes and fixed his tie and had agreed to work with him.

He didn't say any of that. Instead, he was quiet, knowing how his boss would interpret the silence.

Henricksen sighed.

"I would call you back, but you have produced no results". His voice was flat, only stating the facts, without reproof, and Castiel understood immediately what he meant. If they had left after the first murder, it wouldn't have roused any attention. But they had worked on three crime scenes, with three different departments. It would seem like abandoning the police that had called them in.

He managed not to sigh with relief, but only barely. They would stay.

He quickly told Henricksen about the progress they had, or rather hadn't, made and it was obvious his boss was glad that he sounded like his usual self.

He would have thought differently if he had known who Castiel had been talking to a few hours ago.

They ended the call and Castiel returned into the office for a few other useless hours. His excitement grew as the time to leave drew near, but he tried not to let Balthazar see. He couldn't say whether his friend noticed or not, but since he didn't make a comment, he decided that even if Balthazar did know, he was probably thinking it had something to do with the one who'd fixed his tie.

It had, but not in the way he thought. Castiel ignored his smile at the end of the day, when he told him goodnight after dinner, and went to his room.

Having a phone number was certainly more convenient than drawing a sigil on the floor. He only hoped Dean would pick up.

He did so shortly after the ninth ring, just as Castiel had convinced himself that he wouldn't.

"Yes?"

"Hello Dean" he said, "We need to talk".

"I thought we already did that."

"You will admit that there is more to talk about" Castiel insisted, and Dean sighed.

"Of course I meet the only man who wants to talk instead of running for the hills" he grumbled.

"I could just summon you again" Castiel replied, surprised at his own lack of fear. Dean had all but attacked him when he had let him out of the devil's trap, and yet he wasn't scared.

He was even looking forward to seeing the demon again. It was exciting.

He didn't understand.

"Alright. Where are you?"

The demon's voice had changed, sounding cold and cutting, and Castiel wondered if he should tell him.

He shook himself. He was the one who had called. They needed to talk.

"Hotel Barn" he said, rattling off the address, "Room 315".

As soon as he had finished speaking, he felt that he wasn't alone anymore, and turned around to find Dean, eyes black, snarling.

He didn't back him against a wall, but he came to stand close to him, so close that Castiel could see the reflection of light in the black orbs.

"Don't give me ultimatums" Dean said calmly, even though Castiel could tell that he was angry. "Don't make me do things I don't want to do. Don't order me around. Capisce?"

"Yes" Castiel replied, taking a step back, fighting down the fear that had risen at Dean's words. "I capisce".

Dean relaxed, changed his eyes to green and sat down on the bed in one fluid motion.

While he had seen the demon's mood change before, this was even quicker and scarier than the other times, and Castiel took a deep breath.

"You wanted to talk" Dean said.

"Yes. I need to know more."

"Welcome to the club. If I knew – "

"The victims are hunters" Castiel interrupted him. He hesitated, wondering if he should sit beside Dean, before deciding to settle into the only chair in the room. "There are others out there?"

"Of course" Dean said, rolling his eyes. "There have to be. More than enough sons of bitches to gank running around".

"Who are they?"

He blinked. "What do you mean? Men like Stevens, of course, or the couple – "

"The demons are after a group. After the hunters. If we know who they are – "

"You want to protect them". Dean, if anything, seemed amused.

"Yes" Castiel said, irritated.

Dean chuckled. "Trust me, they can protect themselves."

"Then why are they dead?"

"Occupational hazard". He wasn't trying to make Castiel angry; he was genuinely convinced that the victims were no more than people who had failed to protect themselves.

"It doesn't matter" Castiel said calmly. "But if we knew who the hunters were, who was likely to be targeted, we could – "

"Catch them in the act? Trust me, too many hunters out there. And the guy would be careful to check that no one's near."

"Then how are we supposed to find them?" Castiel asked.

"I haven't been idle" Dean replied, standing up and walking to the mini-bar. Balthazar had naturally insisted that they check into a hotel that had one in every room.

He took out two beers and offered one to Castiel. He wanted to decline, but something in Dean's expression made him decide to take it.

He let himself fall on the bed.

"I am good at questioning suspects".

They way he said it – the words pressed out, flat, devoid of all emotion – let Castiel realize immediately what he was talking about. Although, once again, he found that he couldn't say how he knew.

Dean had tortured suspects.

It was difficult to imagine him doing it. Despite having seen him kill someone without a second thought, it was difficult. He looked at his hands, rolling the beer bottle, and tried to picture a knife cutting into flesh in them.

"And?" he asked, managing to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Dean looked up, surprised.

It was surprisingly easy to read him. He had expected Castiel to challenge him. Maybe he had told him so that he would get ready and tell him to leave.

He shrugged.

"There aren't many demons who would do such a thing. I've been trying to find out who'd dare to attempt it. And then, of course, there's the whole killing hunters thing. It makes sense, if one wants to rule Earth as well as take over Hell – "

"Take over Hell?"

Castiel had to ask. It was one thing to have demons killing people; but to hear that this happened because one of them wanted to take over Hell –

"Yes. Anyway – "

"What do you mean, "Take over Hell"?" Castiel demanded.

Dean looked at him.

"You don't wanna know".

"I do" he insisted.

"Are you sure?" Dean asked gruffly, looking down at his bottle again. When he looked up and saw Castiel was still staring at him stubbornly, he took a gulp from his bottle and said, "Don't say I didn't warn ya. Okay, here it goes".

And then Castiel finally heard the truth.

The truth he had been looking for, puzzling over.

"Lucifer's still in his cage, so they need a new boss downstairs. And there's competition."

Castiel frowned.

"Are you telling me – the devil – " he thought about what he had read. "But there was no cage. The devil is responsible for anything sinful that happens on Earth, and – "

Dean laughed. Apparently Castiel's interruption amused him, and he swallowed down his irritation.

"He ruled Hell. And he created the first demons. Was thrown in a cage though. And there he's still. So we're devil-less, and there are enough who are interested in the job."

"Are you – are you talking about a civil war in Hell?"

"You could call it that. Anyway, one of the competitors isn't just after Hell, but after Earth too. So he's killing of hunters. At least that's our theory."

"Our?"

Dean waved a hand in the air.

"Guy I've been working with. Doesn't matter. Back to the topic: Killing hunters in this fashion – it's a ritual."

"I noticed" Castiel replied drily, and Dean chuckled.

"Forgot you're used to this stuff. I didn't mean like serial killer ritual, though. I meant like demon ritual, like unleashing all demons on Earth ritual".

That was a little quick, even for Castiel. He gulped down half of his beer as he tried to wrap his head around what he had just heard.

"But you are here. Others are here. Why do demons have to be unleashed?"

"It's not easy to crawl out of Hell."

There was a darkness in Dean's green eyes that had nothing to do with their natural black, and Castiel chose not to ask. The demon continued.

"The ritual – it's old." Dean pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out to Castiel, who carefully took it.

It wasn't paper. He could tell that much. And it certainly looked old; brown and leathery, at some points it was almost impossible to read.

He quickly went through the text.

"Obscure Latin?" he guessed because he recognized some of the words.

Dean nodded.

"Some crazy guy wrote it in the fourteenth century. Almost impossible to translate." He paused for a moment, then started to grin.

"By the way, that ain't paper."

"What's it then?"

"Human skin".

Castiel managed not to let the ritual drop, but only just. Dean laughed.

"That's something I don't miss about being human" he commented before he grew serious.

"So, someone whose identity we don't know is trying to take over Hell. Clear?"

"Clear" Castiel said, putting the ritual on the desk and wiping his hand on his trousers.

"And this is a ritual that will allow all demons to enter Earth – at least the ones who are allowed. Whoever completes the ritual gets to pick".

"He's trying to take over Hell and Earth on the same time?"

Dean looked at him and shook his head.

"Aren't you supposed to be one of the Bureau's best or something?"

Castiel blushed, anger rising in him. He was good; he was one of the best agents they had ever had, and if this demon thought –

A thought occurred to him.

"Wait. How do you know?"

It was Dean's turn to blush, and again, Castiel was surprised how human he looked when he did something like this, small gestures that showed that he hadn't forgotten his life before he went to Hell.

"Did you – inform yourself about me?"

"I had a right to. You were the one who trapped me".

"I let you out".

"Yes. After you trapped me".

Castiel sighed. This wasn't going anywhere.

"So demons want to take over Earth. I can understand that. I can understand them wanting to take over Hell too – to be a leader. But how is one dependent on the other?"

"At the moment, none of the competitors is stronger than the other. Taking over Earth and freeing one's own guys would ensure that they end up on top. Think about it. Every demon would be all for the one who freed him from Hell. They would be waiting in line to join his ranks."

"Why are you sure it's only one?"

Dean raised an eyebrow and took another sip of his beer.

Castiel gestured towards the ritual with his bottle.

"Why are you sure it's only one demon who wants to take over Earth and Hell with the ritual? It sounds like a sure way to win the war".

"Men go to Hell, become demons. Demons come to Earth, kill and corrupt men. Most demons don't wanna risk something like that – at least not without Lucifer. He's kind of their God. He should be the one to bring Hell on earth, according to many. And there are others who don't wanna upset the equilibrium. No one knows what will happen if they do. Don't get me wrong, they'll jump on the train the moment they know everything went well, but until then – they won't do anything like it".

Castiel noticed that Dean had called Lucifer _their_ God, but didn't say anything. Dean, when he wasn't threatening him and his eyes were green, seemed utterly human, and he was grateful for it. He wouldn't challenge his picture of himself as non-demonic.

"So this ritual..." he began, "what does it entail?"

"Not easy to translate, I can tell you that. Would've been lost if I hadn't had a friend to help."

Castiel doubted that the "friend" was truly such, based on the way Dean pronounced the word.

"They have to kill "ten of those who fight against darkness"" Dean quoted, "and the eviscerating and making crosses out of the body parts is also part of the deal. In our age, those who fight against darkness – "

"Are hunters" Castiel finished.

Dean nodded.

"Then, quite frankly, there's a bunch of other nasty stuff. Most of it falling into the you don't wanna know category. So I've been working on getting the guy who orders all of this."

"And if we don't get him?"

Dean grimaced.

"It's not gonna be Hell on Earth, not at first" he said finally. "Even if they complete the ritual, they'll want to take things slowly – "

"And who tells you that?" Castiel demanded hotly. "The "friend" who translated the ritual for you? You can't just hope things will turn out alright. Also, you spoke of Lucifer in his cage. That demons believe in Lucifer. That he should be the one to do what they are trying to do. Why doesn't anyone try to free him?"

"What makes you think they didn't?" Dean hissed, his eyes turning black. Castiel jumped up and backed away, surprised by the ferocity in the demon's manner.

Dean was clutching the bottle in his hand, and even as Castiel watched, a few tiny cracks appeared in the glass. The small breaking noise seemed to call Dean to reason, and he shook his head and took a deep breath.

When he answered, his voice was flat, and Castiel knew he wasn't telling the truth, or at least not the whole truth.

"They wanted to get him out. They had to break – they had to do some stuff to make it. But they failed. The Righteous Man – there was a guy who had to shed blood in Hell, but while he was still a person, still a man, still good. He broke too quickly" Dean explained.

This wasn't the whole story, far from it. And Castiel didn't understand anything. But Dean was still breathing heavily, and there were helplessness and shame in his dark eyes, so the agent once again decided that the best course was to say nothing.

"So no Lucifer" he replied. "But still – we'll have to find the one responsible soon. They are four hunters down".

Dean nodded.

"And there'll soon be more. Now, since we don't know who – "

"But if we – "

"I told you, just knowing hunters won't bring anything. There are too many of them, and if the one behind this is as clever as we think, he'll have the next murder several states away."

"They have to be fathers, brothers, sisters" Castiel said bitterly. "Doesn't this mean anything to you?"

Dean was silent, and Castiel looked up from his bottle to find him staring out of the window. He resigned himself to the fact that the demon didn't care and asked, "So what now?"

"I investigate, you try to keep your colleagues as far away from the truth as possible" Dean answered cheerfully, although it sounded forced to Castiel's ears, "and when I get stuck in a trap or something is demon-proof, I call you. See you, Cas".

With these words, he was gone, and Castiel was left to contemplate the plan to conquer Earth and why Dean had been so quick to leave.

He didn't think he would see Dean again, at least not until the demon had more information to give him or needed him to get out of some trap. But Dean woke him up a few hours later, out of the first restful sleep he had gotten in a while.

When someone touched his shoulder, he jumped out of bed and turned the lights on, grabbing for the gun he had left in the drawer of the night stand.

A hand on his wrist stopped him, and he looked up in Dean's black eyes.

"Easy there, tiger".

The demon sounded amused as he looked Castiel up and down, and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. He crossed his arms over his chest and demanded, "What do you want?"

"You really need to make this place demon-proof. You summoned me, you should know how to protect yourself" Dean said, apparently oblivious to his question. He sat down on the chair and grinned at Castiel once more, and he remembered that he was wearing s _Playboy _t-shirt that Gabriel had given him when they had still talked. And met. And given each other presents.

He decided not to think about it and repeated, "What do you want?"

He had grown accustomed to Dean's black eyes, which was probably strange since they hadn't spent much time together. He had even got used to green eyes suddenly turning black and back again; but black eyes suddenly flashing green before they became dark once more was still a surprise to him.

Dean looked at the floor, the walls, anywhere but him. Castiel wanted to ask, but he didn't dare. The demon was obviously here for a reason. He wouldn't talk unless he wanted to.

Finally, Dean took a deep breath and began.

"About the other hunters. You said something about warning them."

When he didn't continue, Castiel prompted, "Yes?"

"There might be – alright, there's one. A rather well-known hunter. They might be worried he might get the hang of what's happening."

He paused again, and Castiel tilted his head. He couldn't say why Dean had stopped – was he ashamed? Embarrassed? Both?

When Dean spoke again, he only said one name. Before he did, he paced up and down the room, and when he finally did say it, he pressed it out, quickly, almost as if he'd rather not.

"Bobby. Bobby Singer".

**Author's note: I am trying to show unconscious attraction.  
**

**And Bobby. I couldn't resist.**

**Please review. It would mean a lot. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: Another point of view in this chapter. **

**Please review. **

He had no idea what had made him tell Cas Bobby's name. It wasn't like they were still what they had once been. Dying and becoming a demon cut all ties. He didn't miss his humanity. It had been a bitch while he still had it. All that guilt and self-hating crap. He knew he would have been shocked at what he had become, but he didn't care. Demons didn't care.

So why had he told Cas to check on Bobby? The old drunk could look out for himself. He'd gank any demon who dared try and get into his house. No reason to worry there.

They why had he told Cas?

Why did he even speak to Cas? It wasn't like he couldn't tell him not to call him anymore. It wasn't like he couldn't make sure he didn't call him anymore.

Only that he didn't want to.

He clenched his glass. He was in another bar then the one he had zapped in after he had left the agent the first time – he had to admit, teleporting did come in handy – because he didn't want to attract suspicion by showing that he couldn't get hammered even if he wanted to.

Well, maybe he could. He would have to drink a whole liquor store, though.

He sighed and stared into his whiskey. This damn humanity that he thought he'd left behind just wouldn't go away. The little shred of it that had been stubborn enough to go through Hell and back, anyway.

If Hell was supposed to have any perks, it was that, wasn't it? Not caring anymore? And here he had drunk almost a whole bottle of whiskey, the bartender eyeing him strangely, before he'd woken up Cas and told him to warn Bobby. He never could catch a break.

Why was he even talking to the guy, dammit? Killing him was out of the question – while he had no problems ganking other demons, he wasn't keen on murder, like many of the others.

He grimaced. He still hadn't got used to think of himself as one of those he had hunted. Another thing that set him apart from the normal demons. Most of them couldn't remember being human, and wouldn't believe him when he told them. Idiots.

He concentrated on the problem at hand. Why that Castiel guy? He had run into him, he had almost got himself killed. He was good, according to his file, which he had taken a look at because he considered it important who he was dealing with and not because he was curious, but Dean could handle this on his own. What could the agent do?

He was such a weird guy too. Named after an angel, always so polite. Even when he was frustrated. His need to get the truth out of him reminded Dean of Sam –

No. He wasn't going there. He never went there. He couldn't see the Sasquatch again, couldn't let him see what he had become. He wouldn't go to him and he wouldn't think about him.

He was safe. Dean had checked on him. His little brother was safe and happy, living with a nice woman, working in her dad's auction house. He might even go back to study law, who knew. He had the brains for it, and he'd always wanted to be a lawyer. He'd be a damn good one.

Sam was happy. He was probably relieved that his screwed-up brother was gone. Dean wouldn't show him what he had become. He couldn't need that right now, when he was shopping for rings.

So yeah, he might check on the kid more often than he should. He had practically raised him, he had a damn right to.

No reason to do the same with Bobby, though. He had always been dependent on his brother, but Hell should have taught him better than to care about the drunk former mechanic.

He had sent an agent to him. Bobby would be thrilled.

Dean resisted the urge to let his head fall on the bar, but only barely. He took another sip from his whiskey.

"Falling into old patterns, I see" a smooth voice called out behind him, and he sighed. Should've known that son of a bitch would come to check on him.

"What do you want, Crowley?" he demanded without turning around.

The demon smiled as he slid into the chair next to him, ordering a glass of Craig.

"Just wanted to make sure you are working hard" he answered smoothly. "And not looking after the angel boy with the blue eyes. I've got to hand it to you, mate: You have got good taste."

Dean almost groaned, but decided against it. Crowley would only take it as a victory.

He had always been drawn to certain men. His crush on Doctor Sexy would have been enough indication, had anyone cared to look for evidence. He'd never admitted it to himself in his human life. But since Hell had burned away his inhibitions, as well as his self-hatred, had decided that he shouldn't waste time when he could have fun. So what if he swung both ways. No harm in making a man or woman and himself happy.

Crowley knew, of course. There wasn't much he didn't know.

His comments rarely got under Dean's skin, but he didn't like the implication of him and Cas. They were working together. Better to keep the two things separate. It wasn't as if he was even attracted to Castiel, with these blue eyes and his build and –

Okay, he could appreciate something pretty when he looked at it. But he didn't need complications. And he didn't even know what Castiel liked.

"We're working together" he said.

"No" Crowley replied, gesturing between them, "_we_ are working together. I can't see how your little agent could help us".

Dean couldn't really either, but he wasn't going to tell Crowley he was right. The smug bastard would never forget it.

So he decided to argue, waving to the barman for a refill.

"If I'm caught in a devil's trap, he might get in handy."

It was flimsier than the excuses he had used when he'd still been human, and that was saying something.

Crowley snorted beside him and answered in his usual British monotone (and how he managed to still speak with his accent when they guy he was possessing was from New York, Dean had no idea).

"It's not that I don't understand. He is handsome, if you dig the whole accountant look. Just make sure he doesn't know too much or talk to the wrong people".

Dean recognized it for the threat it was. He wasn't concerned. He knew what Crowley was capable of, but Crowley knew what he was capable of. They both knew how to treat one another. And Crowley needed him. Dean had been a hunter, and he was still good. He could figure out stuff most demons wouldn't even consider. And Crowley had enough to do trying to promote himself as King of Hell without looking for his rivals or the one who wanted to open Hell.

"So, what do you know?" Crowley's tone was mocking, and Dean knew what was coming.

"Found the demon who killed the first victims. It was Billy". Dean shrugged. It didn't make anything easier. Billy had never belonged to any party, not officially, at least. And even if he had been part of the one whose leader was only a whisper – they had never talked, no matter how many times Crowley and Dean had tried to get them to.

"Maybe we could question him – oh wait, you killed him for your agent".

"He wouldn't have told us anything anyway" Dean said, because it was true.

Crowley knew it too.

He emptied his glass and stood up.

"Just a piece of advice my friend: Be careful".

Dean didn't answer. Everything he wanted to say had already crossed Crowley's mind. Wasn't difficult to guess. There were only so many ways in which one could tell someone to "Piss Off".

He stood up and threw money on the table. He could have left without paying, and he mostly did, but he'd spent a few hours here and he didn't want to attract any attention. He didn't need a demon jumping him from behind. Even if he would win.

The bartender seemed glad to see him go. Dean debated flashing him his black eyes, just for fun, but it wasn't worth it.

He went out into the night and looked up at the sky. It was a warm night, stars sparkling for all to see. It was a night he and Sam would have spent sitting on the Impala, staring into the blue velvet over them.

It didn't matter. His old life didn't matter. Sometimes he wondered why he even remembered at all. He had broken. He had been torn apart under knives and hooks and torture instruments he had never seen before and hoped he'd never seen again, every day slowly losing a bit of what he had been.

Dean shook his head. He didn't dwell on the past. Demons didn't dwell on the past, and he was one of them now. He was simply pissed off. Pissed off because Crowley was right. He had killed off their only lead. And he had even played it down when Cas had asked him about it.

Everything would have been much easier if this strange agent wouldn't have insisted on working with him.

He would have to wait for a new murder – and he only realized that he might have sent Cas to a crime scene. That he might have sent Cas to find Bobby dead.

A worry he had thought dead swept through him, and he angrily stormed off. He could have teleported anywhere he wanted, but walking calmed him down.

He passed a shop window and realized that, though alone and not caring, he hadn't changed his eyes back to black yet. For the past few months, since he had crawled out of Hell, he had had to remind himself to make them green. Now he forgot to give them back their natural colour.

Since he had met –

Damn it. He wasn't human anymore. He was a demon. Demons didn't have feelings. They didn't care about old drunks or little brothers or stupid feds who ran into a crime scene.

And what if Bobby was –

He really should never have talked to Castiel. Talking with humans obviously made him sentimental.

Focus on the case, he told himself. He had to find out the demon who had found the ritual and was willing to risk opening Hell. It should be easy, but it wasn't. Apparently there was a powerful demon who had hidden himself for years.

And none of those who worked for him would tell them about him. Dean was starting to suspect that they couldn't. Maybe there was some spell that could force them not to reveal what they knew. If they were trying to find a demon who could do that – and it looked like they did – it wouldn't be easy.

What else was new.

He zapped to a clearing in the woods near the town, deciding that he'd have enough of streets for a while.

Until there was a new murder, he would have to go back to look for other demons whom might be involved with the hidden one, and that just was no fun.

He sighed.

Nothing from his informant, either.

Why couldn't the demon be like any other demon and boast how good he was and that they should all follow him and take over Earth.

Dean Winchester: Unable to catch a break after he went through Hell. It figured.

He ran his fingers through his hair. All of this would be so much easier if he could talk to Sam. That was probably why he was still talking to weird trench coat FBI angel dude. Nostalgia.

"Preoccupied, are we?"

He didn't turn around because he recognized the tone, if not the voice.

"Anything?" he inquired.

"It's not easy. Nobody will say anything. I have to gain their trust slowly".

The person, or rather demon, had come to stand beside him and Dean looked to his left.

He wasn't surprised that she'd picked a woman who looked like she had. Beautiful and cold. The accent, like Crowley's, had stayed.

"If I remember correctly, you referred to yourself as "great" once."

"You still know what I said during our first meeting. I am touched."

He sighed. "Cut the crap, Bela. This is important".

She shot him a look that clearly said "I know" and raised an eyebrow.

For the first time since he'd made his way back unto Earth, he'd sounded defeated. No wonder she was looking at him weirdly. What was the matter with him? Was he really worried? About Bobby? About Cas?

He was only annoyed that he had to think about them in the first place, he decided.

He turned to look at his spy. Bela was the perfect woman for the job. When they had found each other in Hell, and it had given him satisfaction to know that she had broken before he did, there had been some resentment, but soon they understood one another perfectly well. Neither of them wanted Hell on earth, and both could remember what it was like to be human.

He wondered why Bela did. He'd had Sammy to hold unto, but she... Maybe she missed her money.

Then again – they had never made clear how much they remembered; perhaps she had only a dim recollection of him. She certainly was aware that he hadn't helped her. Had neither been capable nor willing.

He still didn't trust her completely. He hadn't when he was human, so he sure as hell wasn't gonna to now when she was a demon. But she was good at what she did. And she was known to have double-crossed them on more than one occasion, so she could gain the trust of whoever was behind this. Dean was too well known to even attempt it.

She could still betray him. But this time, he'd kill her without remorse.

"Why are you here?" he asked. She only came when she had something to tell him. She relaxed when she heard his aggressive tone, and he decided that he probably would have found that strange when he was human.

"There are rumours flying around in Hell".

"There are always rumours flying around in Hell".

It was all they had. Rumours. Memories hurt too much. Rumours were easy. One could live with rumours, with half-truths. Memories hurt because they were real; rumours didn't because one always knew they weren't. There was never going to be any hope in Hell. Rumours didn't give hope. Rumours distracted one from the fire.

"They say you're working for Crowley".

He felt irritation that he should be considered working for Crowley. He wasn't working for anyone. He never had.

"I'm working with him" he corrected. "But they're more or less right. Why bother?"

"Because this paints a hit mark on your back" she said. "An even bigger one than was there before."

When he didn't answer, she added, "You really don't care, do you".

"I care about stopping this" he said. He did. He didn't want demons running around. Other than that – he enjoyed himself when he had the time, but death had lost its terror. He'd been burned so often in Hell that it really didn't matter. So someone wanted to gank him. Big deal.

"You haven't learned anything from your time downstairs" she commented. He shrugged.

"I'm better than them."

"You thought that before".

He looked her in the eyes – eyes that were blue, but were black now – and let his own assume the same colour.

"No I didn't."

He hadn't wanted to die, but he had been aware that he stood at best a small chance to escape the contract. He hadn't made it. Who cared. He was back now and there were more important things at stake.

Silence reigned between them. He remembered how he had found her. He had come across her by accident. He'd been roaming, trying to find a way out, right after he had turned, when there had still been something like desperation left in him and he had not yet lost himself in the endless line of faces under his hands, when Alastair had been torturing someone else, furious that the righteous man hadn't stayed righteous long enough to start the Apocalypse. He could have left her, suspended in the chamber, hooks tearing into what little of her humanity remained, but he had cut her down. He knew she remembered too. And it was enough to not make her insist on continuing the conversation.

"I'll try to find him". A moment later she was gone..

The sun was rising slowly, the first few rays touching the leaves of the trees he stood under, turning them golden.

Cas would soon be on his way to Bobby.

He could still return to the hotel, tell him not to bother. And if the agent didn't want to listen, he had methods to get him to comply.

He stayed where he was, watching the sun slowly touching more and more trees.

Why shouldn't Dean let him talk to Bobby. He wouldn't have to worry about either of them, Cas would be busy, and he had told him not to mention his name. No danger there.

He had to focus on other things. Like finding the son of a bitch who considered it a good idea to let a legion of demons free.

Whoever it was, they were not only daring, but stupid. Demons were selfish bastards. Even if they accepted him as their King, it wouldn't be for long. They'd be too busy killing folks and making deals to obey.

Demons were idiotic sons of bitches, always had been, always would be. Maybe that's why Dean had become one in the first place and why he still found a few traces of humanity in him. He really hadn't been that different before his stay downstairs.

He gave up on attempting to convince himself to stop the agent, and left to continue his investigations.

It wouldn't be easy to lie to Balthazar again.

His friend knew him too well. The only reason Castiel had got away with summoning Dean without his knowledge was that he had been in Lawrence, like he said he would, and had talked to Missouri. To explain why he had to travel to Singer's Salvage Yard was going to be difficult.

Dean had told him that it was located in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It would take him over eight hours to get there, if he drove fast.

There was no reason for him to spend a whole day on the road. Bobby Singer couldn't give them any information. If he told Balthazar he was a witness, he would ask for proof, anything that would show that it was worth it to sit in a car for hours. And Bobby Singer wasn't a witness.

It was someone Dean was concerned about. A hunter. Why would a demon be concerned about a hunter? If he was worried about any potential victim, he would have sent Castiel to more addresses. But there was only the one. Which meant there was probably a personal relationship between them.

Dean was a demon, but demons had been human before they went to Hell. So maybe they had known each other before – but why couldn't he warn him himself, then? Instead, Dean had told him not to mention his name.

Why would he want him to stay safe, but not know that it was Dean who warned him?

Castiel wouldn't know until he went there. If he went there. He shouldn't. It might be a trap. Dean was a demon, he reminded himself again. It was alarming how easily he could forget this little fact; how quick he was to remember Dean sitting on his bed, relaxing, beer in hand –

He shook himself. He shouldn't go to Bobby Singer's. Dean had said that hunters could protect himself. And he didn't have a greater right to be warned than any other man.

But Castiel knew his name. Castiel couldn't warn others. But he could warn him.

He was fighting a losing battle.

It was not only his job to solve crimes, but to protect people. And if there was a chance, a slight chance, that he could protect one man from this killer –

He admitted to himself that he would drive to the hunter.

Still, he didn't like the prospect of lying to Balthazar.

He put on his tie – and once again didn't manage to knot it properly. As always, it hung around his neck backwards. He ran his fingers through his hair that would never stay put and grabbed his trench coat before exiting his room. He had spent the last hours waiting for day to come. He hadn't been able to sleep after Dean had woken him up. There had been something so human about his plea. Castiel had been thinking about it since the demon had left.

Lingering wouldn't do any good, and he went down to the restaurant. Balthazar was sure to already be there, eating breakfast.

His colleague frowned when he sat down across from him. He'd put a little bit of toast on his plate, but not much, since he didn't have an appetite.

"You haven't slept".

"I did".

"Not much. And do you call that breakfast?"

"Who are you? My mother?" Castiel snapped, uncharacteristically, and decided too late that this wasn't the way to convince Balthazar that he was fine and that he had to go for a drive to an unspecified location.

He looked away but could feel Balthazar's stare on his face.

"I have to go somewhere" he heard himself saying. "I'll be back in two days".

"What?"

He turned and looked at his friend. He was staring at him, shocked.

"What do you mean, "somewhere"? And two days? We are in the middle of something, you do realize that?"

"We have nothing."

"And therefore you decide to take a road trip? Does this even have anything to do with the case?"

"It does".

He wasn't lying, not completely, and he took comfort in that.

"Then I'll come with you".

"I need you here."

"You mean you need me to keep Henricksen of your back".

Castiel nodded.

For a moment, he thought Balthazar would say no. He would go anyway, but it would be difficult to explain to Henricksen what he was doing if his friend didn't cover for him.

"I can't get you to stay, can I" Balthazar stated, and he shook his head.

The other agent narrowed his eyes.

"Fine. But this is the last time."

"Thank you" Castiel said, sprang up and left his plate before Balthazar could ask him more questions. Ten minutes later, he was on the road, his bag sitting in the trunk of the car with enough clothes to get him through two days at least.

He drove non-stop. He didn't feel hungry or tired, anticipation coursing through his veins. He was curious. Maybe he could learn more about Dean from Bobby Singer, even if he couldn't mention his name. They had to know each other.

Perhaps he could shed light on the murders. Dean had warned him that he was a bit "gruff around the edges", but would listen if he had to. The man was a hunter, and the victims had been too. And once Castiel told him about the ritual, he _would_ have to listen to him.

With Dean's description and a map, Singer's Salvage Yard was easy to find, and he drove into the somewhat neglected looking place, his heart beating faster.

He opened the door and looked towards the house; no one was coming out to see who had arrived. Maybe he wasn't there. He would wait.

To be sure, he went to the door and knocked. To his surprise, it opened.

To his even greater surprise, he was looking into the barrel of a shotgun.

**Author's note: What do you think of my take on demon!Dean? I also couldn't resist the temptation to include Bela and Crowley. That's just how it works. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: Time for Bobby.**

**If you want to make my day, leave a review. **

Castiel had been in many dangerous situations before and kept his head.

"Bobby Singer?" he inquired, looking at the man who was holding the gun. He was over fifty, bearded, wore a sports cap and a t-shirt and plaid combination that wasn't that different from the ones he had seen on Dean.

"Who wants to know?" he asked.

Castiel reached into a pocket of his trench coat without his eyes leaving the man. The finger on the trigger tightened.

"I am reaching for my badge".

The finger relaxed slightly and he pulled it out, showing it to the man.

"Special Agent Castiel Novak".

While he didn't lower his gun, he snatched the badge out of Castiel's hand, quicker than he would have thought him capable of, and scrutinized it.

"Seems legit". He focused his gaze on Castiel again, the shotgun still pointing at him.

"Why are you here?"

"Could we discuss this inside, sir?" he asked politely. If he'd wanted to shoot him, he would have done so already.

Singer frowned, then nodded. He stepped aside and Castiel stepped over a doormat he was sure was hiding a sigil.

The man lowered his gun and Castiel looked around the house. He was standing in a hallway from which stairs led to the next floor as well as to the cellar. Through a door he could see in the kitchen; through another in the living room.

Bobby Singer didn't invite him into either, simply stood there and waited for an explanation.

When Castiel was silent, he said, "I repeat: Why are you here?"

"You are a hunter" he replied, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Castiel Novak, was it?"

He nodded.

"You're sure you're a fed?"

"You can call my boss, if you want" he answered, although he hoped he wouldn't. He'd rather Henricksen not find about this little excursion.

The ghost of a smile passed over Bobby Singer's face for reasons he couldn't imagine, but he immediately began questioning him.

"So I might be a hunter. So what? And what does it have to do with you?"

"Hunters have been killed" he said quickly, "George Stevens. Keith and Tracy McCall. . "

He could see that Singer had heard about it. The man's shoulders slumped and there was a flash of grief in his eyes. It was gone as quickly as it came.

"I know."

"I think that's why" he continued and took the ritual out of his pocket. He'd decided that it would be the best way to convince him that what he was saying was true.

Bobby took it and looked it over.

"It's gonna take me my golden years to translate this" he mumbled, but it was obvious from the way he went carefully over every line that he understood enough.

He looked at him.

"You are aware that that's – "

"Human skin. Yes".

Singer went into the living room without another word, and Castiel took that as an invitation to follow him.

The hunter sat down behind a desk and gestured for him to take place on one of the chairs in front of it. He chose the one to his right, and as it creaked, his head shot up.

Castiel couldn't read the look he gave him. Then Bobby shook his head and continued reading the manuscript.

"Where did you get that?" he asked gruffly.

It was the question Castiel had feared. Dean had told him where to find Bobby Singer and disappeared, more or less grumbling the address and making it clear that he really didn't want to do what he was doing, helping him warning a hunter.

He hadn't been able to ask any questions before the demon was gone again and had had to come up with a story on his own. This man was a hunter and would be suspicious, especially if he had heard about the deaths of the others.

"I – there was a demon. I surprised him at a crime scene. He ran, left this behind."

Bobby watched him shrewdly.

"Disappeared?"

Castiel remembered what he had read and what Dean had told him about demons possessing people.

"He left the body. He was dead. I found the manuscript on him and burned the body".

Bobby nodded, and Castiel felt that he had passed some sort of test. He felt ashamed that he had to lie to the man. Which didn't make sense, considering he had threatened him with a shotgun.

"You know what it is?"

"I know it's a ritual to open Hell" Castiel replied slowly, carefully. "I know that it would allow the demon who completed the ritual to choose who got on Earth."

He didn't mention the war in Hell. He wouldn't be able to explain how he knew about that without telling him about Dean.

Singer grunted before going over it again.

"It'll take some time to translate this" he said, more to himself than to Castiel. The agent waited for him to continue.

"How did you get involved? Working the case?"

He nodded. It occurred to him that the hunter would need additional information, how he knew about demons when he was a FBI agent, and opted for, "My father was interested in the occult. I slowly realized there was more out there".

Singer's eyes narrowed and Castiel wasn't sure if this was a good sign or not. The man seemed to be suspicious out of habit. If he fought demons and other monsters on a daily basis, Castiel couldn't blame him.

"Ever worked with other hunters? Never heard of you."

"I don't know any hunters" Castiel replied. He was growing annoyed. He wasn't used to being questioned.

He only realized his mistake when Singer stood up, his shotgun in his hand.

"Who gave you my name?"

He had to think quickly now. He wasn't only here because he wanted to warn this man, but also because he hoped he would find out more about Dean. He could only do that if he trusted him.

"The demon" he said firmly. "He began boasting who he was going to kill next. It wasn't difficult to find you".

"There's got to be more than one Robert Singer in the country".

"Not one who has enough time to hunt and lives alone" Castiel shot back. He hoped Singer would interpret this as him deciding that hunters lived alone most of the time so that no one would wonder what they were doing. Putting too many details into one's lies was dangerous. One always had to let the other person think for him or herself.

Singer laid the shotgun on the table again and Castiel relaxed.

"Come on. I could use a drink".

As with Dean, he decided to accept the beer Singer offered him. It was obvious that the hunter had decided to trust him, at least for the moment, and he wouldn't risk alienating him.

Plus, Singer was obviously waiting for him to drink. He had probably put something in that was repellent to demons, so Castiel took a sip. The other man appeared satisfied.

"Can't say I blame you for not wanting to get involved with hunters" Singer chuckled, sitting down on the couch. Castiel wondered if he should carry over the chair he'd sat in before, but decided to take place next to him.

"Hunting – it's a dangerous business".

He looked to his right, but quickly focused on Castiel again. He'd seen the look, of course, and tilted his head to see that there was a picture on the small table beside the couch.

He didn't inquire. He waited, knowing that people usually took this as an invitation to talk. Singer was no exception. Castiel could see him debating with himself if he should show him or not, then he shook his head, drowned his beer, slammed the bottle on the table, stood up and filled a glass with whiskey, everything so quickly and with such practice movements that Castile suspected it was a common occurrence.

Once he had downed half of his glass, he took the picture and all but shoved it into the agent's hands.

Castiel took one look at it and drew in a sharp breath, which he barely managed to cover with a cough. He took a swig of his beer to derail any suspicions Singer might have and took another look at the picture.

It showed Dean and another man he recognized as Sam from the picture Missouri Moseley had shown him at the Salvage Yard. Dean was leaning over a black car, its hood open, but looking at Sam, his eyes sparkling. They were both laughing.

Castiel didn't know why, but something hot flared up in him as he saw them laughing at one another.

"Sam and Dean."

For such a gruff man, his voice became surprisingly soft, and Castiel looked up.

Singer wasn't looking at him, or the picture. He was staring into the air, his eyes showing pain. Grief.

It hurt just to look at him, and Castiel swallowed. He had seen this expression more often than he would have wanted, and he would see it countless times in the future.

Relatives, people who had lost someone they loved.

"These are my – "

Singer looked down, appeared to be searching for a word, then he straightened himself up and continued, "adopted sons".

He was staring at Castiel now, as if expecting that he would challenge him. It took him a moment to understand why – of course he had looked into him before coming here, which the man was aware of; and therefore knew he had never adopted a child. He had been married once, but his wife had died years ago.

He didn't say anything.

Singer raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on his silence. He continued. "Hunters. Both of them. The damn finest" – his voice broke a little and Castiel pretended that he didn't hear – "Dean – the elder one, by the Impala" Castiel assumed that was the car "he died. Few years back. Sam got out".

Another pause, before he added, "He's doing good. Living with a girl. Wants to go back to college".

His voice had lost its sorrowful tone, but his eyes still spoke of grief. And it was for Dean. It was all for Dean.

Dean Winchester had been a hunter.

Castiel had learned why the demon wanted him to warn Bobby Singer. His adoptive father. Why didn't he want him to mention him? He had been to Hell, he was a demon. But he had saved Castiel. He wasn't a typical demon. His past must have prevented him from turning into a mindless killer. He clearly still cared for this man, if he wanted him safe. And he couldn't imagine that Singer wouldn't be glad to hear that he was alive.

The other man shook his head.

"Don't know why I'm telling you this".

"I'm a good listener" Castiel said simply. It was something he had been told many times, and why he was usually send to interview the victims' families if they had to do so themselves, despite his preference to stay in the background.

Singer chuckled and took another sip of his whiskey. "Can't argue with that".

Castiel held out the picture, and he took it, his eyes lingering on Dean's face, resuming the sad expression they'd held during his story.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Singer" Castiel said. He was. For not telling him that Dean was alive. For sitting here, hearing his story, knowing what he did.

Singer carefully put the picture back in his place before replying, still looking at the picture, "No one has said that before".

Years of grieving for a loved one without anyone giving their condolences. Without anyone knowing what he had lost.

"Call me Bobby, will you?"

"Alright" he said, "Call me – " he hesitated before continuing, "Cas".

He couldn't tell Bobby that Dean was still alive. He had promised. But he could let him call by the same name Dean had decided on.

It wasn't much, but it made him feel a bit better.

"Well then, Cas, how about I make us something to eat and you tell me about the case?"

It was against the rules, telling someone about the case. Since he had broken so many in the course of the last few days, Castiel couldn't bring himself to care.

He followed Bobby into the kitchen, his beer in hand. As he watched him place a pan on the stove and take ingredients out of the fridge, he couldn't help but wonder when he'd cooked for a guest the last time before this.

Maybe it had been for Dean.

There were bottles all over the house, but Castiel couldn't blame him. He was still grieving. Just like George Stevens.

The temptation was there. He could feel the words on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out. He kept his mouth shut. Dean would be furious if he told Bobby. Bobby would be –

He tried to imagine what the hunter's reaction would be like. Would he be happy? Shocked? Hunters killed demons. But he wouldn't want to go after Dean, would he?

It was all too risky. So, even though he wanted to, Castiel didn't say anything as Bobby cooked, only quietly drank his beer.

He hadn't eaten all day and could feel it going to his head, so he put the bottle down and asked him if he needed help.

Bobby told him to set the table, and since Castiel had to clean it before and the hunter had to think for a moment where he kept more plates than the one he usually used and quickly rinsed before having dinner, his suspicions that he didn't have guests often were confirmed.

He hadn't known the man long, but it made him sad. He was polite, if a little abrupt, and he was lonely. If he had adopted Dean and his brother – at least unofficially – they must have been here often. He pictured a small Dean running around, perhaps chasing his younger sibling. A teenager, listening to loud music. A young man drinking beer with his father and working on the car – Impala, that's what it had been called, he remembered – his upper body all but disappearing under the hood, laughing at something his younger brother said. It made him smile.

"What are you smiling about?"

Bobby was standing by the stove, staring at him.

"Nothing. It just – I was reminded of someone".

"Family?"

Castiel, unwilling to lie to the man, said "It's complicated."

Bobby nodded understandingly, and only when Castiel turned around to finish setting the table did he realize what the hunter had believed he meant.

He blushed without reason, something that seemed to happen annoyingly often in the last few days, and concentrated on why he was here.

He didn't know what Bobby had cooked, and he didn't tell him, but there was a lot of meat and it tasted good. He remembered again that he hadn't eaten anything since he'd left the hotel and ate greedily.

A chuckle made him look up.

The smile the hunter wore made him look younger.

"You could try chewing, you know. You eat like – "

He blinked and turned his head to look out of the window, his smile dropping.

Castiel realized that they had barely talked about the threat that the ritual brought, but it didn't seem strange. Somehow, he felt comfortable around Bobby, and he thought that the other man felt the same.

He could have ignored his comment and spoken about the manuscript. Instead, he asked, "Your son?"

The silence that followed told him how stupid his question had been, and he was going to finally talk business when Bobby replied, "Yeah. Never could get his food down fast enough. Always wanted more than he could eat". He smiled again. "Haven't talked about him since – since it happened, really".

It was hard to lose someone and not being able to talk about it, he knew from experience. Gabriel hadn't died, but he had left, and Castiel had been too concerned for their father to try to talk about him. Their father hadn't mentioned him once. Castiel hadn't spoken to anyone about his brother since he had left – if one didn't count Balthazar, who he'd told one evening after an especially difficult case when they had been out and he had drunk a little too much. His friend had tried to mention the subject once, but had stopped when he realized Castiel didn't want to talk about it.

"What was he like?" he asked against his better judgement. They other things to focus on – but he couldn't resist the temptation to learn more about Dean. He only knew that he had been a hunter, that he liked beer, that he had a brother and that he had saved his life.

Bobby looked down on his plate. "Confident. Downright cocky. Could annoy the Hell out of you". He smiled fondly. "Loyal. Smart. Kind."

"It must have been difficult" Castiel said softly.

"It was worse for Sam" Bobby replied, apparently carelessly. He had obviously remembered that he was talking to a stranger, and it was unlikely that he would tell him more, Castiel registered with disappointment.

There was one thing he had been asking himself for a while, though.

"He was young, wasn't he, when he died?"

"Twenty-nine".

Dean looked like twenty-nine, or at least his body did. Hadn't he mentioned that he was using his own? Did this mean he was stuck forever at the age of twenty-nine?

"So, the ritual" Bobby said abruptly, taking away their plates and putting them in the sink, "Whoever's doing this isn't just any demon. Has to be a powerful one, and insane".

"It's risky".

"That's one word for it. Powerful spells can hurt the one who's casting them. He has to know exactly what he's doing."

"And if he succeeds – "

"Then we'll all have a problem".

Bobby looked at the page, now and then scribbling something on a notepad on his desk.

"There's three parts he has to complete. The first says is it necessary to kill ten of those who fight against darkness. And something about crosses – "

"Here" Castiel said, showing him the file he'd brought with him. "That should answer your questions".

He had never taken a file and showed it to anyone who wasn't allowed to see it.

Then again, he hadn't known about demons or hunters a few days ago.

Bobby took a look at the pictures. He grimaced.

"Sorry" Castiel said as a thought struck him, "I didn't ask you if you knew – "

"Met George Stevens once, years ago. Never met the others" he said. "That certainly answers my questions about the "turning inside out" part of the manuscript".

He carefully went through the pictures. "Clever demon, this Billy" he said. "Could get past the sigils".

"It might be they are trained to do so" Castiel answered. "This is important to whoever orders them to commit the killings. I'm sure he only takes the best".

"Great. Not just any demons, but trained demons." Bobby closed the file. "What made you suspect anything in the first place?"

He didn't use the suspicious tone of their conversation when Castiel had first entered the house, but the agent knew that much was at stake. He had to keep Bobby's trust.

"Like I said, my father was interested in the occult" he said, "and there were a few cases over the years – I eventually learned about the hunter community. I was satisfied to know that they were taking care of things outside my jurisdiction".

Bobby laughed. He noticed again that it made him look younger. Dean must have made him laugh often, he decided. Anyone who was spoken of with such fondness was sure to have done that.

"This case – I saw the pentagrams and the books." He shrugged. "It wasn't a difficult leap".

"No one's made the connection yet" Bobby said, frowning, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

"They police have been very carefully what they reveal to the press. They don't want to risk mass hysteria because a serial killer is murdering people in their homes".

"No wonder no one caught it yet" he grumbled. "You people should be more willing to share information."

"Because that's what hunters do?"

Bobby said nothing.

They went over the text together, but couldn't make out much except that the second part seemed to be about throwing a town into chaos. Neither of them could say what this meant. Castiel thought about Dean telling him that he knew, and decided to call him as soon as possible.

As soon as he had left, because he was certain Bobby had his ears everywhere on his own ground.

He could have left the hunter to translate the manuscript and returned to working the case, or acting like he did, but Bobby offered him a bed for the night and he was too tired to say no. The older man seemed to like having him around, if because he had brought him the text or because he had been able to talk about Dean, he wasn't sure, and a few hours of sleep would do him good.

Soon enough, he was fast asleep in a guestroom.

* * *

He smiled when he saw the last light had gone out.

This was a special mission. The boss had told him to make a very nice display of the body.

The bodies. He had seen someone else through the windows, dark hair, suit. Why not take him out too. It wouldn't be any trouble.

But Singer – that would be pleasure.

His smile grew into a grin. Every demon had heard about Bobby Singer. He had been after them for so many years, and he had been like a father to the Winchesters.

If it weren't for Dean Winchester, he wouldn't have to die now.

If it weren't for Dean Winchester, everything would be easier.

The one time the hunter was supposed to be strong, and he broke too soon. He was supposed to be righteous, but he turned into something else the moment he was cut loose.

At least he got this kill out of it. Winchester was working for Crowley, so the boss wanted to send him a warning. Kill two birds with one stone and take another step towards completing the ritual while he was at it. Singer was perfect. Fighting against darkness and an old friend of the guy.

Winchester, really. Still holding on to his friends. Pitiful demon, just like he had been a pitiful human.

He would wait a little longer, to make sure they were asleep. Then he would slowly search for a weak spot in the protection. There had to be. There always was.

He could be patient. It would make everything sweeter.

* * *

Some patterns truly didn't change, Dean reflected, drinking another glass of whiskey in another bar. At least he wouldn't have to worry about the hangover tomorrow morning.

He had reached a dead end. Again. He could have called Cas, but there was a chance he was still with Bobby, and what if he greeted him with his name –

No, that wasn't it. He didn't want to hear Bobby's voice, or know that the agent was seated across from him. Damn feelings. Damn human feelings.

Sending someone to Bobby had been an impulse, and if he had learned anything about his impulses, it was that it normally didn't end well if he gave in to them.

He waved for another glass. He was even more frustrated than he'd been after he had told Cas where to find Bobby.

There were no leads, Crowley was away doing God knew what, Bela didn't have anything to tell him or she would show up –

He slammed his glass on the table when he realized, almost hard enough to break it, and ignored the reproachful look of the bartender.

He could hear Bela's words, clear as day.

_They say you're working for Crowley._

If only one demon who worked for the enemy had heard that –

They would want to send Dean a message.

Most likely by killing someone they knew he cared for. Killing him wouldn't be easy, and perhaps they hoped they could use him later once they'd taken over Earth.

Attacking someone else, though –

They'd want to keep working towards their goal, of course. Which meant Bobby was the more likely option.

And he'd sent Cas to him.

He disappeared, leaving the bartender to stare at the chair he'd been sitting in.

**Author's note: I have a lot of Bobby feelings. The romantic entanglement is coming eventually – I simply got caught up in the plot.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: It's my birthday. To celebrate, I decided to upload two chapters. Want to mae a special day even more special? Leave a review!**

He walked around the house, looking for a weak spot. There was sure to be one – a house this size couldn't be completely protected. There was always something, a small, apparently insignificant point from which one could work –

There. A small crack right over a window. If he could make it bigger, if it go down to the windowsill –

He'd have to change its directions. But that was easy enough.

Slowly, he began enlarging the crack, moving along the texture of the wall, making sure it was deep enough. It wasn't difficult, but time-consuming. He could have cracked the whole wall if he wanted to, but he didn't want to risk them hearing him.

He felt a presence behind him. For a moment, he thought Dean Winchester had found him, but then he heard whoever it was take a step towards him and there was only one who could walk like this – softly, and yet strongly, making your skin crawl.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded gruffly.

"Making sure everything goes smoothly" he answered, his voice impossibly soft and slimy. "This is important".

"I can take care of one hunter".

"You didn't sound so sure of yourself in Hell" he whispered.

It was what he always did, torturing even without a rack.

He turned around. Alastair grinned. The master torturer had been the right-hand man of their boss for quite some time. He was the only one who knew who their boss was. Only the demons who worked for him were aware of that, though.

There was a glint in his eyes, even stronger than when he watched souls bleed in Hell, and Daniel – his name was the only thing he knew about himself when he woke up downstairs so long ago, being tortured, aside from the fact that he was a demon – wondered if he was here not only to make sure he did everything right, but also because of Dean Winchester.

Not only had Alastair failed to make the Righteous Man take up a blade – which could have been seen as an accomplishment in a way, because his torture had broken Dean Winchester too fast, had caused him to enjoy torturing souls from the moment he took a knife in his hand, no longer righteous – but he also hadn't made a demon out of him.

There were demons that hadn't been created by Lucifer, but were forged out of human souls. Normally, one couldn't tell the difference between one like Daniel, who had come to life in Hell one day, and one who had been tortured until it broke and became a demon, joined a much better club, really. Dean Winchester though –

No one knew exactly what had happened. Alastair never spoke of it, and no one would ever ask. But from what one could piece together from gossip, one minute Dean Winchester, who had been a demon for years and it was believed had forgotten that he had ever been human, just like every soul that had been turned, was torturing his victims as usual, and the next he was gone.

That in itself wasn't unusual. Demons were gone once they had found their way out of Hell. Sure, it was a little strange that he had managed to slip past Alastair, but other than that, it had even been a satisfactory development. Every demon who knew anything had waited, waited for Dean Winchester to do something. He had been a hunter, a very good one, and he would make a great demon. Many had seen his work in Hell, others when he had still been human.

They expected great things.

What they didn't expect was _nothing_.

Dean Winchester was a great torturer, Alastair had made sure of that. He had never expressed remorse, he had seemed to enjoy his work, at least that was what the demons who had seen him said. He had never shown to possess any outstanding powers, but someone like him could easily wreak havoc if he chose to.

Alastair had created a demon that had fled.

There were many who were pleased by this, Daniel one of them. He didn't know why, but Alastair's face, the true face one could always see behind the meat suit, reminded him of Hell more than any other.

Fire. Blood. Pain. Screams.

It was almost like he could feel the hooks in his skin again.

He forced himself not to look away.

"Why don't you take care of Sam Winchester?" he asked. "I would think that was important too".

Alastair clenched his teeth, and Daniel realized that he had been forbidden to do so. He suppressed a smile.

"We have to focus on the ritual" he replied, his voice as smooth as always. "Sam Winchester quit. He won't be of any use to us".

And yet he wanted to go to him, Daniel thought happily. Alastair wanted to tear him to shreds because his brother had humiliated him, but he wasn't allowed.

If only Alastair wasn't here. The knowledge that he was angry would make his assignment even better. But now he had to take him with him.

"You are slow" Alastair remarked, and Daniel felt hot, strong anger surge through his borrowed veins.

"I didn't want to wake them".

Alastair smiled. He had obviously decided that Daniel would have to pay the price for his bad mood.

He had no knife, so he had to torture him through other means.

He probably wouldn't allow him to kill either of them, Daniel reflected darkly as Alastair continued to widen the crack, much quicker than he could have done.

He was surprised at his desire to kill Alastair as he watched him moving his hands. He had never felt this disgusted at another demon before. Something about the torturer, though –

The window sill cracked. The salt line in the house was broken. Before he could do anything, Alastair drew a knife out of his pocket.

There was no longer any anger in his eyes, only mirth.

"Shall we?" he asked quietly.

* * *

Castiel woke with a start. It was still dark outside, and he didn't think he had slept for long.

He was completely awake. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Something wasn't right.

The impression was overwhelming.

He slipped out of the bed, as quietly as possible, and felt around for his gun. He was weirdly relieved to find it was still where he had left it, and he gripped the handle and drew it towards him.

He hesitated before taking the salt he had bought at a small shop halfway to Sioux Falls out of a pocket of his trench coat. He had felt silly at the time, and he still doubted that it would do much good, but he might as well take it with him.

He couldn't say what had woken him up. But he didn't just wake up like this, not unless he had a nightmare, and he would have remembered.

After he had opened the door a few inches, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he knew.

Someone was in the house.

There was a slight stir in the air, unlike the homely feeling that, despite the threat over their heads, he'd come to know this evening.

He gripped his gun tighter and moved out of the room. They had had an instructor on the academy once who had insisted that they had to know how to move noiselessly and had forced them to sneak up on him countless times. They had all hated him, Balthazar considering shooting him when he turned his back, but Castiel had found himself grateful for the lessons he'd drilled into him several times during his career, and this was another one of those times.

The guest bedroom was downstairs. He had heard Bobby walk up the stairs after he they had said goodnight.

It was dangerous to go up without having checked the rest of the rooms on the first floor or the basement. Whoever was in the house could easily cut him off. But Bobby was upstairs.

Castiel forced himself to walk up as slowly as possible. Every time he made a noise – and the stairs were old and prone to creaking – he waited with baited breath before he took another step. Bobby could be long dead when he found him, but he wouldn't be of any use to him if he was attacked before he reached him.

He had finally arrived at the top of the stairs when he heard it.

Or rather, them.

Two voices he hadn't heard before. They were coming from a room to his right.

One of them sounded normal enough, like countless suspects Castiel had interviewed.

The other –

The sound was muffled through the door, and yet it sent a shiver down his spine. It was smooth, too smooth.

He crawled forwards. Standing next to the door, he could understand what they were saying.

"Do we have to do this? We don't have much time, Alastair" the normal voice hissed.

"We have all the time we need" the other intruder answered. "No one's coming to look for the old drunk, and if they are, we'll deal with them. We can take it slow. Enjoy ourselves. I am sure you would want to hear about your boy, Bobby. How he screamed. How easily he broke. How I sliced and carved and diced him into a new animal – "

Bobby didn't answer, but Castiel had felt Dean's and Billy's powers. The hunter was unable to move.

At least he was still alive.

There were at least two demons. And one of them had tortured Dean in Hell.

His worry that he would tell Bobby what Dean had become, had already more or less done so, was quickly replaced by a blinding hate when he realized what the demon's words meant. He had tortured Dean.

Castiel resisted the temptation to barge into the room, but only just.

He needed a plan.

If he could separate them –

He was pondering this problem, and what he would do once he did, when he heard Alastair resume the conversation.

"If you think we should save time, go take care of the other one."

Castiel acted quickly, on impulse. He stood to the side of the door where the hinges were, so he would be hidden by it when the demon went into the hallway.

As soon as he saw his head, he threw the salt at him.

So far he had only seen demons who looked like humans except for their black eyes. The intruder did too. But the moment the salt touched his skin, he screamed, blisters appearing on his face.

Castiel briefly thought about the man he was possessing, but pushed the pity aside as he hit him on the head with his gun, stunning him, and pushed him aside, entering the room.

Bobby was pressed against a wall, not moving. Alastair was standing in the middle, smiling. He looked pleased that Castiel had come.

"I am glad you could join us" he said, advancing towards him.

Castiel knew it wouldn't do much good, but he still fired his gun. Alastair hadn't paralyzed him; maybe he didn't think it was necessary. Maybe he wanted to play with him.

The wound bled, but he wasn't affected much. It did make him slightly unsteady on his feet, however, and Castiel tackled him while pouring salt over his face.

Alastair didn't scream, his face didn't betray any discomfort, but Castiel knew he was hurting him, and the pleasure he felt at that knowledge would have shocked him in any other situation.

He grabbed Alastair's chin and forced his mouth open, dumping the rest of the salt in his throat.

Again the demon didn't make a sound but Castiel watched his mouth beginning to bleed.

He was yanked away from Alastair. Bobby could move again.

"Come on, you idjit".

He ran to a cupboard and threw it open. It contained an arsenal similar to the ones Castiel had seen at the victims' houses.

Bobby shoved a sawed-off shotgun into his hand and picked up one himself.

"Basement" he said before taking off with surprising agility, and Castiel followed.

At the door, he heard movement behind him and turned around, shooting a round into Alastair's shoulder.

This time there was no mistaking the pain in the demon's expression.

He ran into the hallway, the other demon conscious but writhing on the floor, a wound in his stomach.

Bobby waited for him at the top of the stairs.

Castiel rushed to meet him, and together they made their way downstairs, both of them looking back to see if they were followed.

Bobby followed a strange course, with twists and loops, and Castiel only realized they were walking through devil's traps and other sigils when he saw one painted on the ceiling.

Once they had reached the basement, Bobby pulled open an iron door and gestured for him to get in.

He didn't need to be told twice, and a few seconds later, the hunter had closed the door behind them.

"What – " Castiel began to ask, still trying to catch his breath.

Bobby had led him into something like a panic room. The walls were made of iron, there were many books about lore on the shelves, and he was certain the cupboards contained enough to sustain them for some time.

"No demon's gonna come in here" Bobby said, slapping his hand against the wall.

"How long – "

"A few weeks. Don't think it'll take this long, though. We have enough weapons here to blast them away".

He paused before continuing, "Thanks, kid."

"You're welcome" Castiel answered, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. "What do you think they'll do now?"

"Search the house. They'll find this room soon enough".

"And what then?"

"Capture them, if we can" Bobby said matter-of-factly. "One of them might be able to tell us what's going on." His face darkened. "And I wouldn't mind teaching the creepy one a few lessons in manners".

Castiel pretended to check his shotgun, but Bobby knew immediately.

"Did you hear?" he asked gruffly. "What he said about – what he said about Dean?"

"Yes".

Bobby said nothing. Castiel looked away, his gaze sweeping over the walls painted with symbol after symbol, and he wondered if the hunter had built the room after what had happened to Dean. What had made him go to Hell –

He suddenly realized that he had never thought twice about why Dean had gone to Hell. He knew, of course, why people were supposed to go to Hell. He knew that they had been wicked and were thought to deserve the punishment they got. But Dean had been a hunter. And even now there was something good in him, something that had made him safe Castiel. He couldn't have been damned because of things he had done. The agent felt sure of it.

"It wasn't like – he didn't deserve to go to Hell". Castiel was surprised at how defensive Bobby sounded. Everything – the demons who waited outside, the ritual they were trying to complete – seemed to lose its significance when compared to the reputation of Dean, the boy he had lost.

"He sold his soul to save his brother".

Castiel had quickly read over the page describing demon deals in one of the books he'd found, and he wished he'd gone through it more carefully. But it fit better with the image he had of Dean. He had sacrificed himself for his brother.

Bobby looked at him, a challenge in his eyes, but Castiel made no attempt to deny what he had said. He simply nodded.

Despite everything, Bobby seemed relieved.

"We better get to work" he said, opening a cupboard.

* * *

Dean told himself that it was stupid to get nostalgic, and yet his heart beat faster when he found himself at Singer's Salvage Yard.

He walked by the cars, carefully checking there was no demon nearby, being assaulted by images from times long ago; he and Sam, running around playing tag because Bobby had decided they should have a day off; fixing cars with him; a day a few weeks after Sam had left for Stanford, standing at his porch, feeling lost, Bobby hugging him and giving him a beer; the last attempt to save his life, Bobby there for him –

Dammit, he had to focus. The two would be dead if he didn't focus.

If they weren't already.

And it would all be his fault.

When he came to the house, he almost screamed when he realized he couldn't get through the front door. Damn Bobby and his security.

But this might mean they hadn't got in yet.

He searched the exterior of the house.

When he found the crack in the window sill, he cursed and made his way in, careful to dodge any trap that Bobby had laid out. He remembered how most of them were, and even if he didn't, he knew the old hunter well enough to find them before he stepped in.

If the broken devil's trap hadn't been enough of a clue, he would have known as soon as he had set foot into the house.

He could feel the other demons; two of them. That meant, of course, that they could feel him too.

He drew out the knife that Ruby had carried. If he was lucky, they'd think he was there to help them and he would be able to overpower them.

At least that was what he thought until he entered the hallway and heard one of them talking in the basement, telling the other one to see who had just arrived.

He would have recognized him anywhere.

His strange way of pronouncing things –

And just like that, he was back on the rack again.

_Daddy's little boy isn't as strong as he wanted to be. As strong as he should be. How does it feel, Dean, to disappoint him even after you are dead? After you are both dead?_

_He didn't cry. He never cried, never screamed. He was strong. He wasn't like you._

_I know you want to. I know you want to take that knife, to have it stop. I know you want to inflict pain. Take the offer. You have nothing to lose. _

_Yes, that's it. Carve her up nice and slow. You will both be here for a long time. Make sure she feels it._

_Do you think you would care about her if you were still human?_

He wanted to rip Alastair to shreds, but controlled himself. He had to find Cas and Bobby. There was a chance they were still alive. The old man knew how to kick ass.

Maybe they had escaped? But running wouldn't do any good. Alastair never stopped once he had decided on his next victim. And Bobby wasn't one to run away from his own home.

The house was quiet, too quiet. Perhaps they were –

Dean walked into the living room and tried to understand the relief that swept through him when there were no bodies. He turned around and was in such haste that he almost missed a sigil. He could quickly change directions before he got stuck, but it was a reminder to be more careful. Bobby had made this place almost demon-proof.

Really, if he'd paid a little more attention to his walls –

Dean remembered where the guest bedroom was – he had spent more than one night there – and entered.

Cas had definitely slept there, and he hadn't had enough time to dress himself. Dean left, registering that he had put his trench coat over the chair in the same way he'd always hung up his jacket when he'd been too lazy to put it in the cupboard.

If they had escaped, Bobby was more likely to run into the basement then up the stairs.

Just as he was moving down the stairs, he heard a sound from the next floor and decided to check there first.

Bobby's bedroom door stood open; there was blood on the floor. Dean almost cursed as he took a few steps towards it.

He heard them talking.

"They have locked themselves in the basement. They will come out eventually".

He should have gone to the basement and checked on Cas and Bobby, but hearing this voice was too much and he barged into the room.

He came face to face with Alastair and another demon, whose face –

Dean knew this face.

He was the one who had made it into what it was. It had been one of the first souls to become a demon under his hands.

He had tortured him, hearing his screams, taking pleasure from them, from the blood that was running over his hands.

A faint echo of the self-loathing he had always carried around with him as a human came back to him.

The man – demon – didn't seem to remember him. Like so many, he believed he had woken up in Hell after being created.

Not to remember the demon who had sliced him into a new animal. It didn't sound bad.

Dean looked at Alastair. He wore the same grin he always had, downstairs, moving towards him with a new instrument in hand.

"Alastair".

"Dean. How nice to see you again."

"Glad to see you too" Dean replied, looking at Alastair's true face, the face that was grinning and sneering and threatening at the same time. He didn't know how he could see both the meat suit and the true face, but he would have preferred to have his human vision back. It was bad enough to see his own face when he saw into the mirror, let alone his torturer's.

He took out the knife.

Alastair eyed it.

"Really? No foreplay? No enjoyment? You disappoint me, Dean".

He had disappointed many people, but disappointing Alastair was a pleasure. He moved towards him.

The demon was gone and behind him in an instant.

He was thrown against the wall but managed to hold on to the knife. Alastair was stronger than him. And he didn't know if Bobby and Cas were still alive.

He should leave.

He didn't.

He launched at Alastair, ignoring the other demon. It was a mistake. He tackled him and tried to pry the knife from his grasp. Dean managed to turn them around, so that he was on top; he didn't know where Alastair was, but couldn't care at the moment.

He raised the knife and looked down on the demon.

Looked at the face that had been human when he had first laid eyes on it, before the man had screamed and screamed and he had cut and cut –

For a moment, he thought he wouldn't be able to do it. But then the thing under him snarled, and he saw the monster that this man had become, the monster that was just like Dean, and he would be the one to put it down.

He plunged the knife in his heart without hesitation.

He jumped up, but Alastair wasn't there, and he knew he had gone to the basement.

He rushed out.

* * *

"Alright, let's give them Hell".

Castiel nodded. They had decided to open the door. It was better than waiting.

Alastair was standing in front of them, but Bobby fired a shot before he could paralyze them. Castiel fired another round in his chest. The hunter had explained that they should take turns shooting him so that he didn't have time to use his powers.

They fired until they could see the demon's ribcage split open.

There was a noise, someone running, stopping, Cas thought he heard someone cursing.

Alastair looked down at the wounds before smiling at them, something evil in his gaze.

"See you".

White smoke went out of his mouth, and Alastair – no, the man he had possessed, fell down on the floor. He was dead.

Castiel kneeled beside him, swallowing. He had killed an innocent man.

"I'll take care of it" Bobby said. "Look after the other one".

He didn't want to leave him alone, but they didn't have much choice.

He quickly checked the first floor, then ran upstairs.

The first thing he saw was Dean, staring angrily at a devil's trap that had been painted on the ceiling.

"Dean?"

"Hey, Cas" he greeted him, far more calmly than his expression would have made the agent expect, "would you mind?"

He pointed at the devil's trap.

"Damn Bobby and his wards".

"There is another demon – " Castiel began.

"I killed him. Get me out of here. Before..."

Dean stopped and Castiel turned around.

Bobby was looking at the demon, clutching his shotgun. His knuckles where turning white.

"Dean?"

**Author's note: Since it is stated in the series that demons can't remember being human, I figured they must rationalize what they see in Hell. Also, I love Bobby. **


	12. Chapter 12

It were only Castiel's trained reflexes that prevented Dean from having to get a new shirt.

Bobby raised his shotgun, and the agent jumped, pulling it up as the shot rang out.

The shell buried itself in the ceiling, and Bobby punched him in the face. However, Castiel twisted around and managed to offset his balance.

He swiped Bobby's feet away from underneath the old hunter, and as he came back up, Castiel took him into a chokehold.

"Should've known" Bobby spat, struggling, but Castiel was too strong.

"Take it easy you two, would ya?" Dean asked, and the hunter's eyes flashed with anger as he looked at the demon once more. His anger made his efforts to get out even more frantic. He almost escaped before Castiel got hold of him again and, despite not wanting to do it, he chocked him harder.

When he heard Bobby gasping for breath, he said quietly, "I will let you go and you will stay calm. We will talk. I am stronger than you. Remember".

He felt the hunter nod and let go. Bobby immediately walked up to Dean, not even looking at the shotgun Castiel grabbed as soon as his hands were free.

His own was lying between Bobby and the trap, but he simply stepped over it, glaring at the demon.

Too quickly for the agent to do anything about it, he took out a flask of holy water and threw it into Dean's face.

"Big mistake" he said flatly as he did.

Castiel's stomach clenched when he saw the smoke and Dean wincing, his eyes turning black. It was the first time he had seen the demon hurt. And Dean had killed someone for him. Again.

Unless he wasn't telling the truth and had instead appeared to help their attackers.

It was a possibility. He had to consider it, even though he didn't want to.

He couldn't theorize. They had to talk. He opened his mouth to admonish Bobby and was surprised when the hunter turned around, his face betraying no emotions.

"I am calm. Don't worry, we're talking".

He didn't say anything until Castiel stood beside him.

"Who are you?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"I'd have thought you'd remember me."

Bobby's eyes flashed dangerously.

"You are not Dean."

"What makes you sure? Ask Cas".

Bobby looked at the agent, raising an eyebrow.

Castiel was about to reply when he realized that he didn't have anything to say. He couldn't prove that this was Dean. He knew demons possessed people. They would be able to possess bodies to, naturally.

What if he had been lied to the whole time?

"Don't go doubting me now, man". Dean wagged a finger at him, his eyes still black, either unaware or not caring about the obvious discomfort this caused Bobby. "I already killed two guys for you". He paused. "That reminds me. Bobby, you should probably do something about the dead body in the next room."

The hunter stared at him suspiciously, but took Castiel's arm and dragged him to the door.

He could have twisted out of his grasp, but decided against it. Bobby obviously didn't trust him not to let Dean out while he was looking at the corpse – rightfully so, despite the possibility of Dean lying to him – and the agent simply shot the demon, who was standing in the trap looking bored, a look to assure him he would try to talk sense into Bobby.

Although why he should was another matter. What if this wasn't Dean Winchester, the former hunter who had sold his soul for his brother? What if this was some demon impersonating him and Castiel was helping him with the ritual? After all, "those who fight against darkness" could mean many things, and as an agent he had seen enough.

Bobby immediately went to the body. Castiel didn't recognize him, but that wasn't surprising. Just someone else Dean had considered better off dead than "being ridden by a demon". He swallowed.

There was a knife wound in his breast. Bobby looked up at him, frowning.

"Know what did this?"

"Dean's knife, probably" he replied, remembering Billy's death.

Bobby looked down at the corpse again.

"He has the knife?" When he realized Castiel didn't know what he was asking, he added, "That kills demons?"

He hadn't thought about it before, assuming that it was just another weapon hunters used, but nodded.

Bobby clenched his teeth and Castiel wondered if it was a proof for Dean's identity.

"What do you have to do with that demon?"

Castiel looked straight into the hunter's eyes.

"He sent me here. He wanted you to know about the murders – and to make sure you were safe."

He winced as if he had been slapped.

"Demons don't care".

"This one does" he argued.

Bobby eyed the corpse again, his hands balled into fists.

"He said "two guys". He kill anyone else?"

"A demon at a crime scene. I was there, and it attacked me. Dean arrived and saved me."

"Why?"

"I don't know".

Bobby chuckled humourlessly, and when he looked up, he looked older. He went back into the hallway wordlessly.

"The Impala" he demanded briskly when Castiel emerged behind him, "What's in its ashtray?"

Dean looked like he wanted to answer sarcastically, but as he stared in the hunter's face, Castiel saw a subtle change in his expression. The thin line that was his mouth relaxed, and he dropped his gaze.

When he looked up again, his eyes were green.

"Toy soldier" he replied angrily. "Sam crammed it in. Kept the damn thing every time I rebuilt her".

Bobby blinked, his hands now hanging limp at his sides. Castiel couldn't read his expression; there was pain there, and something like regret, but also – joy? It was difficult to tell.

"Dean?"

"I think we have established that I am Dean, yes".

The hunter ignored the sarcastic tone and answered, "Boy, you are – "

"A demon" Dean stated.

"You have the knife?"

Dean looked confused for a moment. Then he took a step back, his eye colour changing with a blink.

"And what if I did?"

Bobby was silent.

"Really? I come here to safe your asses and this is how you thank me?"

"It's what human you would have wanted" Bobby replied calmly.

"Human me is dead. Long gone".

The hunter flinched and Castiel resisted the impulse to lay a comforting hand on his arm. It wouldn't have been welcome.

"Let me out of here, we go our separate ways and you try not to get killed. Deal?"

"I don't make deals with demons."

"Can't say I blame you" Dean chuckled.

Bobby looked stricken. Maybe it was because of the deal Dean had made, but he took a step back and rubbed his face with his right hand. As he let it drop, Castiel saw that he was shaking.

"How about – " Bobby swallowed and began again. "I'm gonna need more info on the ritual. You'll have to stick around."

Dean shrugged. "I'll stay until you know everything I know".

Bobby extended a hand. "The knife".

"You really think I would give you something that could kill me?"

Bobby stared straight into the black orbs.

"Dean would".

Castiel saw the demon hesitate and was tempted to tell him not to do it. He realized that he was worried for him, which took him by surprise and prevented him from speaking out.

Dean took the knife out of his pocket and held it out to Bobby.

The hunter took it, and now, his hand was steady.

Castiel felt that he would raise it before he did and froze.

He had never frozen before, not when people had been in danger, not when a serial killer had had Balthazar at gunpoint.

But all he could do was watch, the only thought going round in his mind _He's going to kill him_.

Bobby was easy to strike, the knife pointed at Dean's heart –

His hand started shaking again and he dropped the knife.

"Damn it, boy" he grumbled. "I can't kill you".

Dean grinned.

"I was kinda counting on that. Now, would you?" He gestured towards the devil trap on the ceiling.

Bobby went to get a chair after picking up the knife and quickly climbed up, scratching away the paint.

Dean stepped out. "Thanks."

Boby grumbled something unintelligible and turned, walking down the stairs.

Castiel followed him with his eyes and turned to Dean.

"He's going to his study. And he needs a drink" the demon said matter-of-factly. "What happened to Alastair?"

Castiel was about to ask "Who?" but the expression on Dean's face stopped him. He was talking calmly, but was almost shaking with anger.

"We – we shot him with rock salt. Eventually he left the body."

"We'll have to get rid of them" Dean mused. "Wouldn't have thought you'd make it out alive".

"I know how to defend myself" Castiel replied indignantly.

Dean grinned. "Trust me, I saw. Putting Bobby into a chokehold – awesome". He winked.

Castiel didn't find any humour in the situation. He liked Bobby, and he thought the hunter had liked him too. Before he knew he'd lied to him and helped a demon. A demon that had saved his life, but still.

A nudge on his shoulder made him look up.

"Cheer up. We're still alive." Dean seemed to think about what he had just said, then added, "In a way".

He couldn't help the smile that spread over his face.

Dean grinned at him once more and then walked down the stairs, carefully avoiding the wards. The agent was impressed. He would have believed it impossible to escape Bobby's grasp.

Dean felt Castiel's gaze and explained without turning around, "I spent a lot of time here. I could get through these traps in my sleep."

"Except when you get stuck" he replied.

Dean didn't answer until they were almost at the door of the study, and then he pressed the words out, "I was in a hurry".

Castiel couldn't explain the warm feeling that spread through him at the demon's words.

Bobby was reading the manuscript again.

"Dean" he called. "Come here. Need your help".

Dean stepped forward, and Castiel noticed he turned his eyes back to green before coming to stand beside the hunter. He must still like Bobby, even after his time in Hell.

The hunter asked a question about an obscure word that Dean answered with an elaborate explanation that Castiel didn't really understand, but it was nice seeing them working together. It seemed comfortable, the way they looked at the manuscript, Dean making suggestions and Bobby shaking or nodding his head, or the other way round, both of them focused on the task.

The atmosphere only changed when Dean reached for the ritual and touched Bobby's hand that the hunter flinched and the demon took a step back.

Castiel could have sworn he looked hurt.

Bobby had noticed the look too and apparently was debating whether or not he should apologize when Dean continued talking like nothing had happened, although he kept his distance this time.

Castiel felt like he had no right to be here. He was intruding upon a private moment, Bobby and Dean becoming reacquainted, with all setbacks that were to be expected.

He left the room without either of them noticing. He wanted to call Balthazar when he realized the sun hadn't risen yet.

He decided he might as well start to clean up and began to search for the room the demons had broken into.

He found it quickly enough, a crack breaking the salt line on the windowsill, the trap broken.

There was salt in the kitchen and paint in the foyer; he collected both without either of them noticing him and made sure the house was protected.

Then he went to collect the bodies.

He carried Alastair's up the stairs first, leaving it in the hallway and fetching the other man. It wasn't easy, but he hadn't trained Martial Arts and gone to the gym for years for nothing.

"What shall we do with the bodies?" he asked, entering the study. Dean and Bobby had moved closer to each other again, and the demon held a glass of in his hand, which Castiel registered with a smile.

They looked up from their debate about a certain word.

"Almost forgot about those" Bobby said, "Let's get them – "

"They're in the hallway".

"You're not as scrawny as you look".

Castiel glared at Dean. "I'm an agent. I train. I can take care of myself."

"And of the bodies, apparently". Bobby stood up.

"I made sure the house was protected as well".

"We gotta take you on more hunts, Cas" the hunter said as he went into the hallway, and Dean shot him a look.

"You introduced yourself as Cas?"

"It might be my usual nickname".

"I saw the way you stared when I told you I was gonna call you that. It isn't".

With a cheeky grin, Dean walked past him. Castiel rolled his eyes and followed him.

Bobby was standing in front of the corpses.

"Bury or burn?" Dean inquired.

"Bury 'em in the yard" Bobby answered. "Burning them would attract attention ,and I'm not driving around with bodies in my trunk until I find a quiet spot".

Burying the bodies took very little time, since the hunter had a bulldozer.

When they returned to the house, sweaty but satisfied that no one would notice that they had hidden corpses in the Yard, Dean chuckled.

"What?" Castiel asked.

"You have – "

Instead of continuing, Dean motioned towards his cheek, and for a crazy second, Cas thought he would clean off the dirt that must obviously be there, but he simply waited until he did it himself and nodded.

"All gone. Now, back to the problem at hand."

Castiel walked beside him to the study.

"Come here, you idjits. End of the world, might as well know what's happening."

Dean and Cas sat down in front of the desk.

"The "fighting against evil" thing I get" Bobby began. "I'll put out the words that hunters should look after themselves. Course, they might just start killing anyone who takes down bad guys."

And they couldn't protect everyone. It was likely that they would complete the part of the ritual soon enough.

"What about the demon who's behind this?" Bobby asked, looking at Dean.

Dean sighed. "Word is, Alastair knows him. Other than that... They all just follow blindly. Promises of a golden world and all that. Demons are stupid".

"Lilith?"

Dean shook his head.

"Bitch who held my contract" he explained to Castiel. "Can't be here."

"You sure?"

"She's long gone".

There was only one way to interpret Dean's words and expression, and Castiel watched as a flash of satisfaction passed across Bobby's face.

"Any other big players out there?"

"It's not Crowley" Dean replied, "and I can't think of anyone else. Not many who have the brains to do it. Most are still waiting for Lucifer to rise".

"Lucifer exists?"

"They seem to think so. They are waiting for the day he escapes and kills Michael."

"About that..." Bobby trailed off, his eyes on the manuscript.

"No" Dean said firmly. "This isn't gonna start the Apocalypse. Even if they managed to break the first seal – "

He stopped and bit his lip before continuing, "Lilith was the last. The Apocalypse isn't going to happen".

Castiel hadn't understood everything Dean had said, but he had once more conformed that they didn't have to worry about the Apocalypse. If only they knew what the rest of the ritual entailed.

"What about the second paragraph? "Throwing a city into chaos", I believe" he said.

Bobby shrugged. "Could be anything, for all we know". He poured himself another glass, refilled Dean's automatically.

Then he said nothing as both of them looked at Castiel, and he nodded. They had buried bodies together, he wasn't above drinking whiskey with them, even though the sun was only just rising.

The burning was welcome in his throat.

"The sentence could mean anything" he said, looking at the whiskey swirling in his glass. "From riots over the infrastructure breaking down – "

"Doesn't even have to be that" Dean said. "We once saw a town where it was enough to put hookers and booze in there. Demon told me you only have to point humans the way and they'll walk into Hell with big smiles on their faces".

He wanted to ask whether he had met that demon in Hell, but decided against it. Instead, he said, "And you believe that?"

"I've seen it myself."

It was the first time he had mentioned being in Hell, being a demon since he and Bobby had started working on the manuscript, and the hunter grabbed the bottle for a refill.

It must be difficult for him. Castiel had met Dean when he was already a demon, but Bobby saw the boy he had brought up, the man he had considered one of the best hunters there had ever been, and what had become of him.

It was impressive that he even let him free. Castiel could only explain with the affection he held for Dean.

And, after he had watched them for hours, he had concluded that Dean still carried that same affection for the hunter. He would deny it, if his reluctance to explain why he wanted Castiel to warn him was anything to go by. But it was obvious that he still cared a lot for Bobby.

Seeing him with his adoptive father made Castiel realize how lucky he had been. If he had met any other demon at the crime scene, if he had run into the killer, he would be dead by now. And a normal demon wouldn't have bothered to rescue him.

Then again, he assumed not any demon had gone to Hell because he had sold his soul for his brother.

"You alright there, Cas?"

"I'm fine" he said, faking a cough to hide his embarrassment. He hadn't listened to a word that had been said in the last few minutes.

He stood up. "I just realized I have to call a colleague" he said. It was partly true; the sun had risen hours ago and Balthazar would be expecting his call. Castiel didn't know what to tell him, but he would think of something.

Balthazar didn't ask where he had been or what he had done, but there was something in his voice that told Castiel he would have to explain once he returned. Also, his colleague seemed to expect him sooner rather than later, so he reluctantly told him he was on his way and hung up.

"You have to leave?" Dean asked casually when he entered the study. Castiel didn't know why he felt the need to defend himself, but he did.

"I have to return eventually" he said. "I have to do my job".

"This is more important than your little job".

"I am a – "

"Stop it" Bobby interrupted. "Of course you gotta go back. Might be useful to hear how the investigation's going. Plus, if there are more murders – the press is gonna have a field day. And there's more than one way to "throw a town into chaos"".

Mass panic created by mass murder was certainly one of them. Castiel nodded.

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, but he had the feeling it was more for show than anything else.

"Fine. You go, Agent Coop. We're gonna do useful stuff".

"I don't understand that reference" Castiel said, but Dean just laughed and said nothing.

It was easy to forget that he was a demon, Castiel decided as he packed his things. At times, he was angry, ferocious, didn't seem human, like when he backed him against the wall, warning him not to summon him again. But sitting next to Bobby, glass in his hand, laughing, he looked so incredibly human that it seemed incredible that he had gone through Hell.

Castiel didn't know what to make of Dean Winchester. He wasn't a typical demon, and he suspected that he hadn't been a typical human either. He was curious to know more about him, his relationship with his brother, but he wouldn't like the questions, Castiel was sure.

He went into the study to say goodbye. Bobby stood up and shook his hand.

"Don't be a stranger. Anything weird, you call, alright?"

He nodded. "You'll keep me informed?"

"Course. Owe you that much, don't I?"

Castiel might have been modest, but he was too honest to tell Bobby that he hadn't saved his life. They had saved each other, really; if the hunter hadn't dragged him down in the cellar, Alastair would have won eventually.

Dean was looking at Bobby.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your agent did what you sent him for" Bobby said, and even though there was a slight trace of sarcasm in his voice and it was clear that, while he trusted Dean in a way, he was still wary because he was a demon, Castiel took it for what it was, the only thank you the former hunter would get. Dean understood too. He nodded.

Dean followed him out to his car, which surprised Castiel.

"Listen..." the demon said, the coughed. He looked anywhere but at Castiel, and he felt reminded of the morning – was it really only yesterday? – that Dean had appeared in his hotel room and asked him to warn the hunter. He'd looked equally uncomfortable.

"Thank you" he pressed out.

Castiel waited until he looked at him, his eyes black.

"I was doing my job" he said.

"Ganking demons and saving hunters is part of being a fed? I missed my calling".

"You know what I mean" Castiel replied and only then realized that they were teasing each other, in a way that seemed familiar even though they had known each other for little more than a week.

Dean cleared his throat. "Still, man – thanks."

"Don't mention it" he said softly. When he wanted to get in the car, Dean gripped his arm and turned him around, and suddenly they were standing very close to each other. Since Castiel had been accused of having no sense of personal space quite often in the past, he had made a point to keep a respectable distance from everyone at all times, and he felt distinctly that he shouldn't stand so close that he could count the shades of green in Dean's once more human eyes.

Dean noticed too, and took a step back.

"Listen, you need to be careful" he said bluntly. "Alastair escaped, so they know what you look like. And they might have me under surveillance, you never know. Salt a room before spending a night in it. Carry a bottle of holy water".

Castiel nodded.

"Also – " Dean fished something out of his pocket. When he put it into Castiel's hand, he saw that it was a necklace with one of the symbols he recognized from the books he'd read as a pendant.

"Keeps you from being possessed" Dean explained, and Castiel raised his hand to thank him.

In the next moment, he was wiping water out of his eyes.

"Had to make sure" Dean said, sounding cheerful.

"Bobby already checked" Castiel replied, blinking.

"Demons are sneaky. Put the necklace on".

Castiel felt silly as he arranged it so that he was wearing it underneath his shirt, but Dean was right. He had to be careful.

Once he had hidden it, feeling the coldness of the pendant against his skin, Dean fixed his tie.

"How do you manage to get that thing always so crooked?"

Castiel swallowed and found himself unable to answer.

He left without saying much, simply thanking Dean for the necklace again and the demon confirming Bobby's promise that they would call him in case of new developments.

The pendant felt heavy around his neck as he pulled away. For the first time, he wondered if he had got himself into something that was bigger than he could handle.

**Author's note: Here's my birthday present to you and to myself.**

**I hope you have a wonderful day.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: In this chapter: Dean and Bobby and flashbacks. Enjoy. **

Dean turned around as soon as the car started moving. There was no reason to watch Cas drive away. The time he had made a fuss about humans was long gone.

He entered the house, having made sure that he could do so without being caught. While he was there, no demon would attack, and Bobby would make the place secure once more after he had left. He'd be gone before sundown. This place had been as close to home as he had ever known in his life, but it wasn't anymore.

He had seen Cas' looks, his shy smiles, and knew the agent believed that they had had a family reunion, that he and Bobby were fine.

It wasn't true. He knew the hunter felt disgusted when he came near. His flinch had been enough to prove that. For some reason, he seemed more comfortable when Cas was around. As if the agent would have been a match for a demon.

Still, Dean had to give him credit. He had fought against Alastair and the –

He had managed not to think about the body they had buried alongside Alastair's meat suit. Apart from his own, and Bela's, it was the first demon face he had seen that he had known when it was still human, when there was still light in its soul, when it wasn't twisted, corrupted. His and Bela's faces weren't half as repulsive. Not because they were pretty – far from it – but they had already been halfway there, more or less serial killers, liars, the darkness had already begun to swallow them long before they made their way downstairs.

But this man –

Toby, he remembered, unbidden, without making a conscious effort, Toby Dawns.

He had told him his name, screamed it at him, maybe in an attempt to awake his pity. Pity. It was one of the first feelings that was burned away in Hell.

It had felt so good, to slice when he had been on the other side of the knife for so long. He hadn't cared that these were humans, that some were on the rack because they had traded their soul for similar reasons than he had. As long as he could keep slicing, as long as the blood ran over his hands, as long as their screams filled his ears, he was glad. He had felt the burning in him, the burning that took away a part of his humanity every time he raised the knife, but he hadn't stopped to think about it. It felt good to lose his humanity. Humanity brought nothing but pain. His human life was over.

And he had known that before he began to torture Toby. Why did he think of him as a man now, when in Hell he hadn't paid any attention? Why did he suddenly remember others, why could he suddenly distinguish faces in his memories when before there had only been screams and the same taste of blood? It didn't make any sense.

"Where are you?"

Bobby's voice didn't sound like it had when he was human, when the hunter only wanted to know where Dean was so he could be sure he was okay or because he wanted to offer him a beer. There was mistrust there, because Dean was a demon, had nothing to do in this house where a little boy had once run after his younger brother, the two laughing...

His hands clenched into fists, but he forced himself to relax before he entered as provocatively slowly as he could. He might as well act like a demon, like he didn't give a crap. Bobby didn't have to know it mattered to him.

"Don't worry, I didn't steal anything".

Bobby shot him a weary look, another glass in his hand. Dean strode over to the desk, taking the manuscript.

"We could get a copy. You ask whoever pops into your mind, and I go my own way. There are enough trees I could shake".

Bobby, who had moved back when Dean grabbed the ritual stepped forward.

"You don't have to – "

"Come on. Cas is gone. You don't have to pretend" Dean said briskly. He was angry that Bobby had to pretend; he was angry that he was angry about it.

"Don't think I didn't see ya wishing you could use that knife. Now give it back. I have a few other demons to gank" he added.

"Dean..." Bobby didn't take the knife out of the drawer he'd put it in. Dean could easily have taken it, but he wanted the hunter to give it to him voluntarily, no matter how stupid it was to wish such a thing. It didn't make a difference. Neither did the strange happiness he felt when Bobby referred to him by his first name.

"Cas said you saved him" Bobby continued.

"You mean before I dropped in to help him and your sorry ass? Yes, I did".  
"You didn't have to do that".

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked hotly. Bobby looked at him, just looked at him, the way he had always looked at him when he'd told him he was fine even though he wasn't. Only then did he realize that he had talked like the man he had used to be, not like the demon he was now.

He cleared his throat. "I was investigating, and he happened to come in the way. Saved him because I wanted to kill Billy anyway. No big deal".

"And who was Billy?"

"The killer" Dean replied matter-of-factly.

"So you killed the one guy who could have led you to the one pulling the strings? Don't try to play me, boy. I know how demons think".

"You shouldn't have let me in then" Dean said.

Bobby chuckled. It was such an unexpected response that Dean didn't say anything, simply waited for him to continue.

"Even Hell couldn't get you to shut up" he said fondly. "And I – I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wanted you back".

Dean looked around the room, noticed the empty bottles. He hadn't paid attention to them before.

That was strange. Bobby might drink, but he never let bottles standing around. He kept a clean house, or rather an organized chaos. So why did it look like he robbed a liquor store?

"The last few years haven't exactly been easy" the hunter said, and Dean looked at him again. Bobby didn't take a step towards him, but he relaxed.

Dean wondered why it gave him a stab to think about Bobby alone, drinking. They had been like family once, but that was long gone. Hundreds of years burning stood between them.

Apparently it didn't matter.

He looked at the bottles again, some of them dusty.

"Don't. I hear enough of that from Sam".

It was the first time either of them had mentioned the name, and Dean tensed.

"You planning on calling him?"

"No. He got out. He should stay where he is".

"He'd want to know you're back".

"I'm a demon. He wouldn't want to know that" Dean said.

He expected Bobby to continue to argue, he expected to have to say no again and again. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it, like he hadn't wanted to knock on his door every time he checked up on Sam. But it wasn't possible. He shouldn't see what his brother had become. He should stay safe.

Bobby didn't say Sam's again; he didn't insist that Dean should tell him that he had returned; instead, he looked at him, poured himself another glass and motioned for him to do the same.

The burning was welcome, even if the alcohol didn't affect him.

"So, you and Cas..." Bobby began unexpectedly. Dean felt strangely possessive when he heard the hunter referring to the agent by the nickname he had given him.

"You said he came in the way? How did you meet, exactly?"

Dean tried to find out why the question made an echo, a remembrance of a feeling long lost reappear in his breast, but then he simply answered, "He was stupid. Decided to look at a crime scene at night. I was there, knocked him unconscious. He did it at another crime scene, killer caught him, I saved him."

"And now he's helping you" Bobby stated. Dean shrugged.

"I didn't force him to. I can't get rid of him".

"He's good" the hunter said. "There aren't many who'd attack a demon and walk to tell the tale."

"Yeah, he ain't bad" Dean replied, recalling Cas holding back Bobby. It had been quite hilarious.

Bobby's eyes narrowed. "I can tell what you're thinking, boy. Stop".

"Make me" he shot back, and the smile Bobby gave him made him feel better against his will. It was nice here. Easy. It shouldn't have been, but it was.

"At least we got the law on our side" Bobby mused. "That's a first".

"Tell me about it". Dean refilled his glass. There was something Bobby wasn't saying. He always knew. He'd met the man when he'd been under ten years old, and he knew his every mood.

As a human, he would have been worried. As a demon, even though he hadn't got rid of certain emotions, he couldn't have cared less.

"I watched your goodbye" he said gruffly. "You two – "

It didn't surprise him that Bobby knew. The days that knowledge would have bothered him were long gone.

"You think I would damn a FBI agent? Bobby, I'm hurt".

He could see that the man was surprised at his reaction and shook his head.

"There's nothing".

He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "You might wanna tell him that" and concentrated on the ritual again.

They didn't make much progress. Dean had learned many things during his time in Hell, most of which would have made Bobby take out the knife on the spot, but translating strange Latin texts wasn't one of them. He should have known the hunter wouldn't be much help. In fact he had known – if Crowley couldn't translate it, why should Bobby.

He was still here, though, here for reasons he didn't dare admit to himself, damn it, and so he debated the meaning of several words with the old drunk for a few hours.

Things were going good. Great, in fact. And then Bobby had to talk about stuff again.

"You said you killed Lilith" he began. They had been pouring over the text, and Dean had convinced himself that he wouldn't have to answer any more questions. Of course his luck hadn't changed, not even Hell could do that.

He didn't like remembering Hell. There was a reason it was called Hell. He remembered the smell of his skin as it was cut off, the heat, the pain. He remembered the joy he had felt slicing. And he remembered killing Lilith. It had been easy.

_He was a demon, and he deserved to be here, but he also wanted to escape. He'd been looking for a way out for years now._

_He enjoyed torturing, and he was starting to think that he had been born to do it, but he knew what he would do when he got out: Nothing. He would possess some guy who was just as unimportant as he had been, and he would enjoy himself. If he ever got out._

_He looked down at the face that would soon cease to be human indifferently, driving the knife in what was left of the man's arm. He screamed, and Dean enjoyed the blood that came sizzling out, almost evaporating in the heat. _

_And then there was a voice in his ear. He stopped torturing, surprised. Demons could make contact with other demons, but they had to be pretty powerful to do it, so he was immediately listening attentively._

I can help you_, the voice said. _We can help each other.

_He thought it sounded pretty slimy, and when he actually met Crowley, he would decide that his first impression had been right, but then he didn't think much about it. _

_Especially not when he was told that he would have to do something to get out of Hell, and that something would be to kill Lilith._

_He had wanted to gank the bitch since he had first heard her name._

_So when the knife was put in his hand, he didn't hesitate._

_He had been told where to find her. _

_The voice had told him, the voice he was pretty sure belonged to Crowley. He hadn't met him, but he had heard about the King of the Crossroads. He knew it was better to be on his good side. And if he could get him out of here, he would do what he was told, at least until he had clawed his way out of Hell. And even if he couldn't help him, he could kill Lilith. Bitch deserved to die. _

_She rarely joined others in torture or did it herself. Few had ever laid eyes on her. If demons had priestesses, she was it. Waiting for Lucifer to return. _

_He could stay where he was, according to Dean. The Apocalpyse was not something he wanted to see. Paradise for demons – he'd have to be much more stupid than he was to believe that. _

_He went through shadows and pain and flames and blood, making sure no one saw him, the movement coming as easy to him as it always had when he had been alive, even though it had been hundreds of years since he had last done something like it._

_The memory of him and Sam breaking into a house invaded his mind, and he pushed it away like he did with every feeling, every reminder of what had once been. It was over. What counted now was to get Lilith._

_She was where he had been told she would be. She wasn't alone. Dean almost cursed when he recognized Asmod, one of Alastair's head torturers. _

_He was one of them himself, but that didn't mean he had to like them. Quite the opposite. When Alastair had got bored of his screams, it had been Asmod to take up the knife. _

_He felt hate course through him, amplified by the darkness that had turned his soul into what it was now, and would have attacked if he hadn't heard his name. _

Dean Winchester has failed. What now?

_He grinned. Whatever he had failed them at, it was sure to be a good thing that he had. True, he didn't much care for anything that was going on, but it was good to see Asmod angry. _

Have faith. There will be another Righteous Man.

And if he breaks as well, if he isn't Righteous anymore, by the time he takes the knife?

_Pain that had nothing to do with torture shot through him, a pain he couldn't understand. It was as if his lost humanity had come back to him, to taunt him with what he had done._

_He attacked. _

_Asmod died, the knife in his throat and fear in his eyes, and Dean revelled in it. He turned to Lilith._

_She stood in front of him and her eyes followed the knife. _

_There was no fear in her eyes, but she was on her guard. He couldn't surprise her like he had Asmod, and she was one of the most powerful demons in Hell; according to the legends, she was the first Lucifer had created._

_He shouldn't have barged in, but he was still so angry, fury coursing through his veins, making it difficult to think. _

_He attacked. She dodged him and reached for the knife. He managed to evade her, but she raised her hand and pain shot through him, the pain of a thousand torture sessions. _

_It should have paralyzed him, and Lilith was counting on it, her posture relaxing._

_But there was still that pain in him that was different from the one he had felt on the rack, and it caused him to propel towards her once more._

_This time, she wasn't quick enough. _

_She died without a sound, and Dean quickly left. Most demons respected Lilith, he didn't want to know what they would do to the one who had killed her._

_He was back at the rack, tearing, twisting, corrupting, trying to forget the words about the Righteous Man. _

_He didn't know how much time had passed, it could have been days or weeks or years later, only the faces under his hands changed, and he was still torturing, still – _

_The voice spoke to him again, told him of a way out of Hell, and he let the instruments go and went, blindly, without thinking. _

_He only realized what had happened when he saw the sky he hadn't seen in hundreds of years. It was night. He could see the stars._

_Then he became aware that he didn't have a body. In Hell, it hadn't mattered; the soul kept the form it was used to before changing. Now, he was a dark cloud, and he moved forward. _

_He had to find a meat suit, he realized. He didn't know where he was, but it wouldn't be difficult to find someone. _

_There was a town a few miles from where he appeared, and he floated into the next bar. He stayed near the ceiling as he surveyed the people and found a man alone, drinking. Probably after a break-up, considering he downed three whiskeys in the time Dean watched him. _

_Emotions all over the place. Perfect. _

_He waited until the man left, then in a dark street he decided it was time and entered him. _

_It was a strange feeling, but he subdued the man's soul, knocking him out. It wasn't fun being ridden by a demon, no need to torture the guy. _

_He noticed the irony of what he had thought. He quickly went through the guy's pockets and found his wallet. In it, there were a few pictures of him and his family, and it brought out a feeling he had been sure had burned away long ago; it might have been something like regret. _

_He wouldn't keep him long anyway. He had to cover his tracks, and he had to find – _

"_A pleasure to finally meet you, Dean"._

_He turned around to find a middle-aged man in a suit, smiling at him. His soul had the colour of the crossroads demons, and it wasn't difficult to connect the dots._

"_Crowley"._

_He knew him to be King of the Crossroads and a powerful demon, but he had the knife. He mustered him unconcerned. _

"_I see you made your way out" the demon said. "And you already found a meat suit. But maybe you would prefer something a little more familiar?"_

"_What do you mean?"_

_Crowley shook his head mockingly. "If you wanted to use your own body, of course"._

_He was sure that he had been in Hell for over three hundred years, even though after a while everything had blurred together and the passage of time had only meant a new victim. He knew that one month on Earth meant ten years in Hell. _

"_I don't think walking around as a zombie would be a good idea" he snarled. _

_Crowley smiled. _

"_You underestimate me. When I am after a deal, I offer something of worth. Your body is all ready for you, as young and good-looking as the day you were torn apart by the Hell hounds". _

"_What do you want for it?" Dean asked suspiciously. _

"_It's less of a deal, and more a... partnership of sorts" Crowley explained, using his hands to accentuate his words. _

"_And why would I want that?"_

"_Because Lucifer isn't going to rise" Crowley said. "The Apocalypse didn't work out, and now we're all free to do what we want. And I want the throne"._

"_So you want to be the new Sheriff downstairs and expect me to help you?"_

"_Well, you already killed Lilith, which makes things easier for me" the other demon explained, "and trust me: You'd rather have me there than anyone else. I'm a business man, Dean. I know when to uphold the equilibrium, and that's more important than anything right now. You help me, you get your body and you can keep the knife. So what do you say?"_

_Dean didn't have to think long. He didn't have anywhere to go. Sam crossed his mind briefly, but he wouldn't like what he saw. He wanted the big brother that had gone to Hell, not the demon that had crawled out of it. And if there really was going to be war in Hell – and it seemed likely, since the Apocalypse wasn't coming, he remembered Asmod's and Lilith's conversation – why not choose a side. He was one of them now. And Crowley had helped him out, for whatever reason. _

"_Alright" he said._

_In the next moment, they were in Crowley's mansion. His body lay on a table, looking as good as the demon had promised. Dean happily left the man, who slumped to the floor, and entered._

_It felt good, being back in his body, and he knew instinctively that no one would be able to exorcise him. He and his body belonged together; he wasn't possessing anyone. At least he didn't have to worry about anyone sending him back. _

_Before Crowley could do anything like kill the guy, he dumped him back where he found him. He was gone less than a few seconds._

_Crowley raised an eyebrow._

"_There are better ways to cover your tracks"._

_Dean didn't answer him._

"_This – partnership. What does it entail?"_

_Crowley smiled. "We have to know who the competition is. We need to eliminate them."_

_Dean nodded. "And how do we find out who it is?"_

"_I know most" Crowley replied. "Lilith was a strong opponent, and Alastair isn't as uninterested as he looks"._

_Dean felt anticipation build in him. If this got him to kill Alastair, he was more than happy to have taken up Crowley's offer. _

"_Alastair, though, isn't our problems. Nor are the other ones. I am smarter than any of these idiots. But there's one – No one knows how he is. But there are demons in Hell whispering about someone strong, someone who wants the Throne, who will do anything to turn Hell into a Paradise."_

"_And how do we find out who it is? Kidnap demons?"_

"_I was thinking more along the lines of espionage"._

_Dean laughed. "You got the wrong partner. I ain't going back there. Everyone knows who I am"._

"_I would say you are full of yourself, but you are right. Too many demons know your story. We'll find an agent eventually, and when we know who it is, then it's your turn. You're good at killing". _

_Dean knew he was right. And Crowley wanted him to kill a demon. He could do that. He had ganked Lilith, he would gank Alastair, and whoever it was that wanted to take over Hell, it wouldn't be that difficult. It was what he had done his whole life. _

_He went over Crowley's words and immediately thought of something. Or rather, someone. _

"_You said you needed an agent."_

_Crowley raised an eyebrow._

"_You have anyone in mind?"_

_There was indeed someone who should still be in Hell. _

"_Bela Talbot" he answered. He had hated her for a long time, but after seeing her in Hell during one of his attempts to get out, after cutting her down, it had become more difficult. _

"_She's good. Don't know where she is"._

_Crowley hummed. "It won't be difficult to find her. I found you". _

_Dean wanted to ask how, but felt that it wasn't the right question to ask. _

_Two days later, Bela was looking for evidence in Hell. While she was doing it, Crowley's minions began to kidnap other demons, demons who weren't important but might have heard something. They couldn't risk taking those that ran the recruitment drive because they knew nothing about the demon behind this, how powerful he was, and Crowley was careful. It didn't matter to Dean, who tortured to find out what they knew._

_As it turned out, they knew nothing._

_A few months into this, the killings started. _

**Author's note: Please review. **


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